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ESTHER 


/ 6^0 


WATERS 






COPYRIGHT 1899, BY 
HERBERT S. STONE &'CO 
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED 


the LtERARY OF 
CONGRESS. 

Two Copies Received 


OCT 29 1904 



cu^ Not 

COPY A. 






PREFACE 


The proofs of the first edition of “Esther Waters” 
were sent to three leading American publishers. The 
book was declined by all three, and it was published 
without the American copyright having been secured. 
As soon as it became apparent that “Esther Waters” 
had obtained the approval and support of the public, 
the publishers who had refused it, came forward 
either with proposals to issue an authorized, but non- 
copyright edition in the States, or with proposals to 
publish my next book. This story is not told in order 
to show that publishers are not capable of distinguish- 
ing a book that is worth publishing when it is sub- 
mitted to them, but with the object of calling attention 
to a vice inherent in the publishing trade. In the 
course of their complex business, publishers are led 
into the error of indulging in abstract speculations 
regarding the moral point of view of their customers. 
The three publishers in question were not in the least 
uncertain what they thought about “Esther Waters”; 
to them it was a most moral and edifying book ; but 
they were not sure that “the general reader” would 
think well of a book containing a description of a 
lying-in hospital. The same uncertainty harassed the 
publishing mind regarding ‘ ‘ Evelyn Innes, ’ ’ not what 
it thought, but what the neighbours would think of 
“Eyelyn Innes” ; and a gentleman of leisure connected 


vi 


PREFACE 


with the publication of this book, having qualms 
regarding certain passages, employed his leisure in 
marking the passages to which he himself took no 
exception, but to which he thought other people would 
take exception. My wonderment increased as I 
turned over the pages of the marked copy which he 
submitted to me. I do not propose to furnish here a 
list of the absurdities into which an intelligent man 
had been betrayed. One instance will suffice. Find- 
ing the following passage struck out — ‘ ‘ In her stage 
life she was an agent of the sensual passion, not only 
with her voice, but with her arms, her neck and hair, 
and every expression of her face, and it was the crav- 
ing of the music that had thrown her into Ulick’s arms. 
If it had subjugated her, how much more would it 
subjugate and hold within its sensual persuasion the 
ignorant listener — the listener who perceived in the 
music nothing but its sensuality!” — I said, “But for 
what reason do you suggest the elimination of this 
passage? This is the Puritan point of view. I 
thought that your proposal was to draw my attention 
to the passages which you thought Puritans would 
object to.” “Ah,” he said, “that was how I began, 
but as I got on with the work, I thought it better to 
mark every passage that might give offence.” “And 
to whom,” I said, “could this passage give offence? 
Certainly not to any religious body.” “No,” he 
answered, “not to any religious body, but it would 
give offence to the subscribers of the new opera house. 
If parents read that the music of ‘Tristan’ threw 
Evelyn into the arms of Ulick, they would not care to 
take their daughters to hear this opera, and might 
possibly discontinue their subscriptions. ’ ’ 


PREFACE 


Vll 


Folly, of course, can go no further, but though 
extravagant, this anecdote is characteristic and 
typical of the mistake into which every one falls when 
he seeks the truth in his casual experience instead of 
in his own heart. If the book does not shock the 
moral sense of the publisher it is certain that it will 
not shock the moral sense of his customers, and this 
rule is not limited to England, it applies equally to 
America. 

The loss of copyright is not only a pecuniary but a 
moral loss. A non-copyright book is issued by so 
many different firms that it brings neither profit nor 
credit to any one. It is printed and published any- 
how, it is flung upon the market, it is the mere dust 
of the ways, in the control of no one, it passes beyond 
hope of redemption from numberless errors; and, if 
the author should wish to introduce corrections into 
the work, he finds it almost impossible to do so owing 
to the number of different editions. 

The publication in England of a sixpenny edition of 
my “Esther Waters” obliged me to read the book. I 
read it for the first time at the beginning of this year. 
We do not read until the fermentation of composition 
has entirely ceased, until time has detached us from 
the subject, and the composition of the original text 
had been achieved upon the proof-sheets. Corrections 
to the extent of several thousand words each were 
added to or subtracted from the text up to the time 
of going to press. But this method of composition, 
the reconstruction of a book upon the proof-sheets, 
however inseparable from certain literary tempera- 
ments, is not conducive to finish of detail; and on 
reading the book, its general proportions, its architec- 


viii 


PREFACE 


ttire, seemed to me superior to the mere writing; the 
carving of door and window, I recognised in many 
places as being summary and preparatory, and it was 
love’s labour to try to finish what I had left unfin- 
ished. 

In venturing to alter published text I have followed 
the practice of Shakespeare, Goethe, Wagner, Balzac, 
Wordsworth, Fitzgerald and my friend W. B. 
Yeates. It would perhaps be presumptuous to refer 
to these revisions were it not that it is these very 
revisions that in a measure rescue my book from the 
chaos of cheap publications. I dare not point to any 
particular passage in which I think a real improve- 
ment has been effected ; outside of this study it would 
be immodest to exhibit side by side the original with 
the amended version, but I can say without laying 
myself open to obloquy that I believe this version will 
be found by any reader of jesthetic instinct to be 
superior to the original text, and I will ask my readers 
in America to read this edition in preference to any 
other. If it be inappropriate for me to take the pub- 
lic into my confidence regarding the exact value I 
place upon the revised passages, it will be still more 
inappropriate to relate the pleasures and disappoint- 
ments I experienced in reading my book. But even 
on this point, perhaps, I may venture a word, for mis- 
conceptions regarding the intention of my book have 
arisen. It was assumed that its object was to agitate 
for the passing of a law to put down betting. The 
teaching of “Esther Waters’’ is as little combative as 
that of the Beatitudes. Betting may be an evil, but 
what is evil is always uncertain, whereas, there can be 
no question that to refrain from judging others, from 


PREFACE 


IX 


despising the poor in spirit and those who do not 
possess the wealth of this world, is certain virtue. 
That all things that live are to he pitied is the lesson 
that I learnt from reading “Esther Waters,” and that 
others may learn as much is my hope. 



Esther Waters 


I. 

She stood on the platform watching the receding 
train. A few bushes hid the curve of the line; the 
white vapour rose above them, evaporating in the pale 
evening. A moment more and the last carriage would 
pass out of sight. The white gates swung forward 
slowly and closed over the line. 

An oblong box painted reddish brown and tied with 
a rough rope lay on the seat beside her. The move- 
ment of her back and shoulders showed that the bun- 
dle she carried was a heavy one, the sharp bulging of 
the grey linen cloth that the weight was dead. She 
wore a faded yellow dress and a black jacket too warm 
for the day. A girl of twenty, short, strongly built, 
with short, strong arms. Her neck was plump, and 
her hair of so ordinary a brown that it passed 
unnoticed. The nose was too thick, but the nostrils 
were well formed. The eyes were grey, luminous, 
and veiled with dark lashes. But it was only when she 
laughed that her face lost its habitual expression, 
which was somewhat sullen ; then it flowed with bright 
humour. She laughed now, showing a white line of 
almond-shaped teeth. The porter had asked her if she 


2 


ESTHER WATERS 


were afraid to leave her bundle with her box. Both, 
he said, would go up together in the donkey-cart. 
The donkey-cart came down every evening to fetch 
parcels. . . . That was the way to Woodview, 

right up the lane. She could not miss it. She would 
find the lodge gate in that clump of trees. The man 
lingered, for she was an attractive girl, but the station- 
master called him away to remove some luggage. 

It was a barren country. Once the sea had crawled 
at high tide half-way up the sloping sides of those 
downs. It would do so now were it not for the shingle 
bank which its surging had thrown up along the coast. 
Between the shingle bank and the shore a weedy river 
flowed and the little town stood clamped together, its 
feet in the water’s edge. There were decaying ship- 
yards about the harbour, and wooden breakwaters 
stretched long, thin arms seawards for ships that did 
not come. On the other side of the railway apple blos- 
soms showed above a white-washed wall ; some market 
gardening was done in the low-lying fields, whence the 
downs rose in gradual ascents. On the first slope 
there was a fringe of trees. That was Woodview. 

The girl gazed on this bleak country like one who 
saw it for the first time. She saw without perceiving, 
for her mind was occupied with personal consideration. 
She found it difficult to decide whether she should 
leave her bundle with her box. It hung heavy in her 
hand, and she did not know how far Woodview was 
from the station. At the end of the platform the sta- 
tion-master took her ticket, and she passed over the 
level-crossing still undecided. The lane began with 
iron railings, laurels, and French windows. She had 
been in service in such houses, and knew if she were 


ESTHER WATERS 


3 


engaged in any of them what her duties would be. 
But the life in Woodview was a great dream, and she 
could not imagine herself accomplishing all that would 
be required of her. There would be a butler, a foot- 
man, and a page ; she would not mind the page — ^but 
the butler and footman, what would they think? 
There would be an upper-housemaid and an under- 
housemaid, and perhaps a lady’s-maid, and maybe that 
these ladies had been abroad with the family. She 
had heard of France and Germany. Their conversa- 
tion would, no doubt, turn on such subjects. Her si- 
lence would betray her. They would ask her what 
situations she had been in, and when they learned the 
truth she would have to leave disgraced. She had not 
sufficient money to pay for a ticket to London. But 
what excuse could she give to Lady Elwin, who had 
rescued her from Mrs. Dunbar and got her the place 
of kitchen-maid at Woodview? She must not go back. 
Her father would curse her, and perhaps beat her 
mother and her too. Ah ! he would not dare to strike 
her again, and the girl’s face flushed with shameful 
remembrance. And her little brothers and sisters 
would cry if she came back. They had little enough 
to eat as it was. Of course she must not go back. 
How silly of her to think of such a thing! 

She smiled, and her face became as bright as the 
month: it was the first day of June. Still she would 
be glad when the first week was over. If she had only 
a dress to wear in the afternoons! The old yellow 
thing on her back would never do. But one of her 
cotton prints was pretty fresh ; she must get a bit of 
red ribbon — that would make a difference. She had 
heard that the housemaids in places like Woodview 


4 


ESTHER WATERS 


always changed their dresses twice a day, and on Sun- 
days went out in silk mantles and hats in the newest 
fashion. As for the lady’s-maid, she of course had all 
her mistress’s clothes, and walked with the butler. 
What would such people think of a little girl like her ! 
Her heart sank at the thought, and she sighed, antici- 
pating much bitterness and disappointment. Even 
when her first quarter’s wages came due she would 
hardly be able to buy herself a dress : they would want 
the money at home. Her quarter’s wages! A 
month’s wages most like, for she’d never be able to 
keep the place. No doubt all those fields belonged to 
the Squire, and those great trees too; they must be 
fine folk, quite as fine as Lady Elwin — finer, for she 
lived in a house like those near the station. 

On both sides of the straight road there were tall 
hedges, and the nursemaids lay in the wide shadows on 
the rich summer grass, their perambulators at a little 
distance. The hum of the town died out of the ear, 
and the girl continued to imagine the future she was 
about to enter on with increasing distinctness. Look- 
ing across the fields she could see two houses, one in 
grey stone, the other in red brick with a gable covered 
with ivy; and between them, lost in the north, the 
spire of a church. On questioning a passer-by she 
learnt that the first house was the Rectory, the second 
was Wood view Lodge. If that was the lodge, what 
must the house be? 

Two hundred yards further on the road branched, 
passing on either side of a triangular clump of trees, 
entering the sea road ; and under the leaves the air was 
green and pleasant, and the lungs of the jaded town 
girl drew in a deep breath of health. Behind the plan- 


ESTHER WATERS 


5 


tatioii she found a large white-painted wooden gate. 
It opened into a handsome avenue, and the gatekeeper 
told her to keep straight on, and to turn to the left when 
she got to the top. She had never seen anything like 
it before, and stopped to admire the uncouth arms of 
elms, like rafters above the roadAvay; pink clouds 
showed through, and the monotonous dove seemed the 
very heart of the silence. 

Her doubts returned; she never would be able to 
keep the place. The avenue turned a little, and she 
came suddenly upon a young man leaning over the 
paling, smoking his pipe. 

“Please sir, is this the way to Woodview?” 

“Yes, right up through the stables, round to the 
left." Then, noticing the sturdily-built figure, yet 
graceful in its sturdiness, and the bright cheeks, he 
said, “You look pretty well done; that bundle is a 
heavy one, let me hold it for you. ’ ’ 

“I am a bit tired,” she said, leaning the bundle on 
the paling. “They told me at the station that the 
donkey-cart would bring up my box later on. ” 

“Ah, then you are the new kitchen-maid? What’s 
your name?” 

“Esther Waters.” 

“My mother’s the cook here; you’ll have to mind 
your p’s and q’s or else you’ll be dropped on. The 
devil of a temper while it lasts, but not a bad sort if 
you don’t put her out.” 

“Are you in service here?” 

“No, but I hope to be afore long. I could have 
been two years ago, but mother did not like me to put 
on livery, and I don’t know how I’ll face her when I 
come running down to go out with the carriage.” 


6 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Is the place vacant?” Esther asked, raising her eyes 
timidly, looking at him sideways. 

“Yes, Jim Story got the sack about a week ago. 
When he had taken a drop he’d tell every blessed thing 
that was done in the stables. They’d get him down to 
the ‘Red Lion’ for the purpose; of course the squire 
couldn’t stand that.” 

“And shall you take the place?” 

“Yes. I’m not going to spend my life carrying par- 
cels up and down the King’s Road, Brighton, if I can 
squeeze in here. It isn’t so much the berth that I care 
about, but the advantages, information fresh from the 
fountain-head. You won’t catch me chattering over 
the bar at the ‘Red Lion’ and having every blessed 
word I say wired up to London and printed next morn- 
ing in all the papers.” 

Esther wondered what he was talking about, and, 
looking at him, she saw a low, narrow forehead, a 
small, round head, a long nose, a pointed chin, and 
rather hollow, bloodless cheeks. Notwithstanding the 
shallow chest, he was powerfully built, the long arms 
could deal a swinging blow. The low forehead and 
the lustreless eyes told of a slight, unimaginative 
brain, but regular features and a look of natural hon- 
esty made William Latch a man that ten men and 
eighteen women out of twenty would like, 

“I see you have got books in that bundle,” he said 
at the end of a long silence. “Fond of readin’?” 

“They are mother’s books,” she replied, hastily. 
‘ ‘ I was afraid to leave them at the station, for it would 
be easy for anyone to take one out, and I should not 
miss it until I undid the bundle.” 

“Sarah Tucker — that’s the upper-housemaid — will be 


ESTHER WATERS 


7 


after you to lend them to her. She is a wonderful 
reader. She has read every story that has come out in 
Bow Bells for the last three years, and you can’t puzzle 
her, try as you will. She knows all the names, can 
tell you which lord it was that saved the girl from the 
carriage when the ’osses were tearing like mad towards 
a precipice a ’undred feet deep, and all about the baro- 
net for whose sake the girl went out to drown herself 
in the moonlight. I ’aven’t read the books mesel’, but 
Sarah and me are great pals. ” * 

Esther trembled lest he might ask her again if she 
were fond of reading; she could not read. Noticing a 
change in the expression of her face, he concluded that 
she was disappointed to hear that he liked Sarah and 
regretted his indiscretion. 

‘ ‘ Good friends, you know — no more. Sarah and me 
never hit it off ; she will worry me with the stories she 
reads. I don’t know what is your taste, but I likes 
something more practical; the little ’oss in there, he is 
more to my taste. ’ ’ Fearing he might speak again of 
her books, she mustered up courage and said — 

“They told me at the station that the donkey-cart 
would bring up my box. ’ ’ 

“The donkey-cart isn’t going to the station to-night 
— you’ll want your things, to be sure. I’ll see the 
coachman; perhaps he is going down with the trap. 
But, golly ! it has gone the half-hour. I shall catch it 
for keeping you talking, and my mother has been 
expecting you for the last hour. She hasn’t a soul to 
help her, and six people coming to dinner. You must 
say the train was late.” 

“Let us go, then,” cried Esther. “Will you show 
me the way?” 


8 


ESTHER WATERS 


Over the iron gate which opened into the pleasure- 
ground, thick branches of evergreen oaks made an arch 
of foliage, and between the trees a glimpse was caught 
of the angles and urns of an Italian house — distant 
about a hundred yards. A high brick wall separated 
the pleasure-ground from the stables, and as William 
and Esther turned to the left and walked up the road- 
way he explained that the numerous buildings were 
stables. They passed by many doors, hearing the 
trampling of horses and the rattling of chains. Then 
the roadway opened into a handsome yard overlooked 
by the house, the back premises of which had been 
lately rebuilt in red brick. There were gables and 
ornamental porches, and through the large kitchen 
windows the servants were seen passing to and fro. 
At the top of this yard was a gate. It led into the 
park, and, like the other gate, was overhung by 
bunched evergreens. A string of horses came towards 
this gate, and William ran to open it. The horses 
were clothed in grey cloth. They wore hoods, and 
Esther noticed the black round eyes looking through 
the eyelet holes. They were ridden by small, ugly 
boys, who swung their little legs, and struck them with 
ash plants when they reached their heads forward 
chawing at the bits. When William returned he said, 
“Look there, the third one; that’s he — that’s Silver 
Braid.” 

An impatient knocking at the kitchen window inter- 
rupted his admiration, and William, turning quickly, 
said, “Mind you say the train was late; don’t say I 
kept you, or you’ll get me into the devil of a pickle. 
This way. ’ ’ The door let into a wide passage covered 
with cocoanut matting. They walked a few yards; 


ESTHER WATERS 


9 


the kitchen was the first door, and the handsome room 
she found herself in did not conform to anything that 
Esther had seen or heard of kitchens. The range 
almost filled one end of the room, and on it a dozen 
saucepans were simmering ; the dresser reached to the 
ceiling, and was covered with a multitude of plates and 
dishes. Esther thought how she must strive to keep 
it in its present beautiful condition, and the elegant 
white-capped servants passing round the white table 
made her feel her own insignificance. 

“This is the new kitchen-maid, mother.” 

“Ah, is it indeed?” said Mrs. Latch, looking up from 
the tray of tartlets which she had taken from the oven 
and was filling with jam. Esther noticed the likeness 
that Mrs. Latch bore to her son. The hair was iron 
grey, and, as in William’s face, the nose was the most 
prominent feature. 

“I suppose you’ll tell me the train was late?” 

“Yes, mother, the train was a quarter of an hour 
late,” William chimed in. 

“I didn’t ask you, you idle, lazy, good-for-nothing 
vagabond. I suppose it was you who kept the girl all 
this time. Six people coming to dinner, and I’ve been 
the whole day without a kitchen-maid. If Margaret 
Gale hadn’t come down to help me, I don’t know 
where we should be ; as it is, the dinner will be late. ’ ’ 

The two housemaids, both in print dresses, stood 
listening. Esther’s face clouded, and when Mrs. 
Latch told her to take her things off and set to and pre- 
pare the vegetables, so that she might see what she was 
made of, Esther did not answer at once. She turned 
away, saying under her breath, “I must change my 
dress, and my box has not come up from the station yet. ” 


lO 


ESTHER WATERS 


“You can tuck your dress up, and Margaret Gale 
will lend you her apron. ’ ’ 

Esther hesitated. 

“What you’ve got on don’t look as if it could come 
to much damage. Come, now, set to. ’ ’ 

The housemaids burst into loud laughter, and then 
a sullen look of dogged obstinacy passed over and set- 
tled on Esther’s face, even to the point of visibly 
darkening the white and rose complexion. 


II. 


A sloping roof formed one end of the room, and 
through a broad, single pane the early sunlight fell 
across a wall papered with blue and white flowers. 
Print dresses hung over the door. On the wall were 
two pictures — a girl with a basket of flowers, the 
coloured supplement of an illustrated newspaper, and 
an old and dilapidated last century print. On the 
chimney-piece there were photographs of the Gale 
family in Sunday clothes, and the green vases that 
Sarah had given Margaret on her birthday. 

And in a low, narrow iron bed, pushed close against 
the wall in the full glare of the sunlight, Esther lay 
staring half-awake, her eyes open but still dim with 
dreams. She looked at the clock. It was not yet time 
to get up, and she raised her arms as if to cross them 
behind her head, but a sudden remembrance of yester- 
day arrested the movement, and a sudden shadow 
settled on her face. She had refused to prepare the 
vegetables. She hadn’t answered, and the cook had 
turned her out of the kitchen. She had rushed from 
the house under the momentary sway of hope that 
she might succeed in walking back to London; but 
William had overtaken her in the avenue, he had ex- 
postulated with her, he had refused to allow her to 
pass. She had striven to tear herself from him, and, 
failing, had burst into tears. However, he had been 
kind, and at last she had allowed him to lead her back. 


II 


12 


ESTHER WATERS 


and all the time he had filled her ears with assurances 
that he would make it all right with his mother. But 
Mrs. Latch had closed her kitchen against her^ and 
she had had to go to her room. Even if they paid 
her fare back to London, how was she to face her 
mother? What would father say? He would drive 
her from the house. But she had done nothing wrong. 
Why did cook insult her? 

As she pulled on her stockings she stopped and won- 
dered if she should awake Margaret Gale. Margaret’s 
bed stood in the shadow of the obliquely falling wall ; 
and she lay heavily, one arm thrown forward, her 
short, square face raised to the light. She slept so 
deeply that for a moment Esther felt afraid. Suddenly 
the eyes opened, and Margaret looked at her vaguely, 
as if out of eternity. Raising her hands to her eyes 
she said — 

“What time is it?” 

“It has just gone six. ” 

“Then there’s plenty of time ; we needn’t be down be- 
fore seven. You get on with your dressing; there’s no 
use my getting up till you are done — we’d be tumbling 
over each other. This is no room to put two girls to 
sleep in — one glass not much bigger than your hand. 
You’ll have to get your box under your bed. . . . 

In my last place I had a beautiful room with a Brussels 
carpet, and a marble washstand. I wouldn’t stay here 

three days if it weren’t ” The girl laughed and 

turned lazily over. 

Esther did not answer. 

“Now, isn’t it a grubby little room to put two girls 
to sleep in? What was your last place like?” 

Esther answered that she had hardly been in service 


ESTHER WATERS 


13 


before. Margaret was too much engrossed in her own 
thoughts to notice the curtness of the answer. 

“There’s only one thing to be said for Woodview, 
and that is the eating ; we have everything we want, 
and we’d have more than we want if it weren’t for the 
old cook : she must have her little bit out of everything, 
and she cuts us short in our bacon in the morning. 
But that reminds me! You have set the cook against 
you; you’ll have to bring her over to your side if you 
want to remain here. ’ ’ 

“Why should I be asked to wash up the moment I 
came in the house, before even I had time to change 
my dress.’’ 

“It was hard on you. She always gets as much as 
she can out of her kitchen-maid. But last night she 
was pressed, there was company to dinner. I’d have 
lent you an apron, and the dress you had on wasn’t of 
. much account. ’ ’ 

“It isn’t because a girl is poor ’’ 

“Oh, I didn’t mean that; I know well enough what 
it is to be hard up. ” Margaret clasped her stays across 
her plump figure and walked to the door for her dress. 
She was a pretty girl, with a snub nose and large, 
clear eyes. Her hair was lighter in tone than Esther’s, 
and she had brushed it from her forehead so as to 
obviate the defect of her face, which was too short. 

Esther was on her knees saying her prayers when 
Margaret turned to the light to button her boots. 

“Well, I never!’’ she exclaimed. “Do you think 
prayers any good?’’ 

Esther looked up angrily. 

“I don’t want to say anything against saying 
prayers, but I wouldn’t before the others if I was 


ESTHER WATERS 


U 

you — they’ll chaff dreadful, and call you Creeping 
Jesus.” 

“Oh, Margaret, I hope they won’t do anything so 
wicked. But I am afraid I shan’t be long here, so it 
doesn’t matter what they think of me. ” 

When they got downstairs they opened the windows 
and doors, and Margaret took Esther round, showing 
her where the things were kept, and telling her for 
how many she must lay the table. At that moment a 
number of boys and men came clattering up the pas- 
sage. They cried to Esther to hurry up, declaring that 
they were late. Esther did not know who they were, 
but she served them as best she might. They break- 
fasted hastily and rushed away to the stables ; and they 
had not been long gone when the squire and his son 
Arthur appeared in the yard. The Gaffer, as he was 
called, was a man of about medium height. He wore 
breeches and gaiters, and in them his legs seemed 
gfrotesquely thick. His son was a narrow-chested, 
undersized young man, absurdly thin and hatchet- 
faced. He was also in breeches and gaiters, and to his 
boots were attached long-necked spurs. His pale yel- 
low hair gave him a somewhat ludicrous appearance, 
as he stood talking to his father, but the moment he 
prepared to get into the saddle he seemed quite differ- 
ent. He rode a beautiful chestnut horse, a little too 
thin, Esther thought, and the ugly little boys were 
mounted on horses equally thin. The squire rode a 
stout grey cob, and he watched the chestnut, and was 
also interested in the brown horse that walked with its 
head in the air, pulling at the smallest of all the boys, 
a little freckled, red-headed fellow. 

“That’s Silver Braid, the brown horse, the one that 


ESTHER WATERS 


15 


the Demon is riding; the chestnut is Bayleaf, Ginger 
is riding him: he won the City and Suburban. Oh, 
we did have a fine time then, for we all had a bit on. 
The betting was twenty to one, and I won twelve and 
six pence. Grover won thirty shillings. They say 
that John — that’s the butler — won a little fortune; but 
he is so close no one knows what he has on. Cook 
wouldn’t have anything on; she ‘says that betting is 
the curse of servants — you know what is said, that it 
was through betting that Mrs. Latch’s husband got 
into trouble. He was steward here, you know, in the 
late squire’s time.” 

Then Margaret told all she had heard on the subject. 
The late Mr. Latch had been a confidential steward, 
and large sums of money were constantly passing 
through his hands for which he was never asked for 
any exact account. Contrary to all expectation. 
Marksman was beaten for the Chester Cup, and the 
squire’s property was placed under the charge of a 
receiver. Under the new management things were 
gone into more closely, and it was then discovered that 
Mr. Latch’s accounts were incapable of satisfactory 
explanation. The defeat of Marksman had hit Mr. 
Latch as hard as it had hit the squire, and to pay his 
debts of honour he had to take from the money placed 
in his charge, confidently hoping to return it in a few 
months. The squire’s misfortunes anticipated the 
realization of his intentions ; proceedings were threat- 
ened, but were withdrawn when Mrs. Latch came for- 
ward with all her savings and volunteered to forego 
her wages for a term of years. Old Latch died soon 
after, some lucky bets set the squire on hi^ legs again, 
the matter was half forgotten, and in the next genera- 


i6 


ESTHER WATERS 


tion it became the legend of the Latch family. But to 
Mrs. Latch it was an incurable grief, and to remove 
her son from influences which, in her opinion, had 
caused his father’s death, Mrs. Latch had always 
refused Mr. Barfield’s offers to do something for Wil- 
liam. It was against her will that he had been taught 
to ride ; but to her great joy he soon grew out of all 
possibility of becoming a jockey. She had then 
placed him in an office in Brighton; but the young 
man’s height and shape marked him out for livery, 
and Mrs. Latch was pained when Mr. Barfield pro- 
posed it. “Why cannot they leave me my son?’’ she 
cried ; for it seemed to her that in that hateful cloth, 
buttons and cockade, he would be no more her son, 
and she could not forget what the Latches had been 
long ago. 

“I believe there’s going to be a trial this morning,” 
said Margaret; “Silver Braid was stripped — ^you 
noticed that — and Ginger always rides in the trials.” 

“I don’t know what a trial is,” said Esther. “They 
are not carriage-horses, are they? They look too 
slight.” 

“Carriage -horses, you ninny! Where have you been 
to all this while — can’t you see that they are race- 
horses?” 

Esther hung down her head and murmured some- 
thing which Margaret didn’t catch. 

“To tell the truth, I didn’t know much about them 
when I came, but then one never hears anything else 
here. And that reminds me — it is as much as your 
place is worth to breathe one syllable about them 
horses ; you must know nothing when you are asked. 
That’s what Jim Story got sacked for — saying in the 


ESTHER WATERS 


^1 

‘Red Lion’ that Valentine pulled up lame. We don't 
know how it came to the Gaffer’s ears. I believe that 
it was Mr. Leopold that told ; he finds out everything. 
But I was telling you how I learnt about the race- 
horses. It was from Jim Story — Jim was my pal — 
Sarah is after William, you know, the fellow who 
brought you into the kitchen last night. Jim could 
never talk about anything but the ’osses. We’d go 
every night and sit in the wood-shed, that’s to say if it 
was wet; if it was fine we’d walk in the drove-way. 
I’d have married Jim, I know I should, if he hadn’t 
been sent away. That’s the worst of being a servant. 
They sent Jim away just as if he was a dog. It was 
wrong of him to say the horse pulled up lame ; I admit 
that, but they needn’t have sent him away as they 
did.” 

Esther was absorbed in the consideration of her own 
perilous position. Would they send her away at the 
end of the week, or that very afternoon? Would they 
give her a week’s wages, or would they turn her out 
destitute to find, her way back to London as best she 
might? What should she do if they turned her out- 
of-doors that very afternoon? Walk back to London? 
She did not know if that was possible. She did not 
know how far she had come — a long distance, no 
doubt. She had seen woods, hills, rivers, and towns 
fiying past. Never would she be able to find her way 
back through that endless country; besides, she could 
not carry her box on her back. . . . What was she 

to do? Not a friend, not a penny in the world. Oh, 
why did such misfortune fall on a poor little girl who 
had never harmed anyone in the world ! And if they 
did give her her fare back — what then? . . . 


i8 


ESTHER WATERS 


Should she go home? . . . To whom? . , 

To her mother — to her poor mother, who would hurst 
into tears, who would say, “Oh, my poor darling, I 
don’t know what we shall do; your father will never 
let you stay here. ’ ’ 

For Mrs. Latch had not spoken to her since she had 
come into the kitchen, and it seemed to Esther that 
she had looked round with the air of one anxious to 
discover something that might serve as a pretext for 
blame. She had told Esther to make haste and lay the 
table afresh. Those who had gone were the stable 
folk, and breakfast had now to be prepared for the 
other servants. The person in the dark green dress 
who spoke with her chin in the air, whose nose had 
been pinched to purple just above the nostrils, was 
Miss Grover, the lady’s-maid. Grover addressed an 
occasional remark to Sarah Tucker, a tall girl with a 
thin, freckled face and dark-red hair. The butler, 
who was not feeling well, did not appear at breakfast, 
and Esther was sent to him with a cup of tea. 

There were the plates to wash and the knives to 
clean, and when they were done there were potatoes, 
cabbage, onions to prepare, saucepans to fill with 
water, coal to fetch for the fire. She worked steadily 
without flagging, fearful of Mrs. Barfield, who would 
come down, no doubt, about ten o’clock to order din- 
ner. The race-horses were coming through the pad- 
dock-gate; Margaret called to Mr. Randal, a little 
man, wizen, with a face sallow with frequent indiges- 
tions. 

“Well, do you think the Gaffer’s satisfied?’’ said 
Margaret. John made no articulate reply, but he mut- 
tered something, and his manner showed that he 


ESTHER WATERS 


19 


strongly deprecated all female interest in racing ; and 
when Sarah and Grover came running down the 
passage and overwhelmed him with questions, crowd- 
ing round him, asking both together if Silver Braid 
had won his trial, he testily pushed them aside, declar- 
ing that if he had a race-horse he would not have a 
woman-servant in the ^place. . . . “A positive 
curse, this chatter, chatter. Won his trial, indeed! 

What business had a lot of female folk ” The rest 

of John’s sarcasm was lost in his shirt collar as he 
hurried away to his pantry, closing the door after him. 

“What a testy little man he is!” said Sarah; “he 
might have told us which won. He has known the 
Gaffer so long that he knows the moment he looks at 
him whether the gees are all right. ’ ’ 

“One can’t speak to a chap in the lane that he 
doesn’t know all about it next day,” said Margaret. 

hates him; you know the way she skulks 
about the back garden and up the ’ill so that she may 
meet young Johnson as he is ridin’ home.” 

“I’ll have none of this scandal-mongering going on 
in my kitchen,’’ said Mrs. Latch. “Do you see that 
girl there? She can’t get past to her scullery.’’ 

• Esther would have managed pretty well if it had not 
been for the dining-room lunch. Miss Mary was 
expecting some friends to play tennis with her, and, 
besides the roast chicken, there were the cotelettes a 
la Soubise and a curry. There was for dessert a jelly 
and a blancmange, and Esther did not know where 
any of the things were, and a great deal of time was 
wasted. “Don’t you move, I might as well get it 
myself,’’ said the old woman. Mr. Randal, too, lost 
his temper, for- she had no hot plates ready, nor could 


20 


ESTHER WATERS 


she distinguish between those that were to go to the 
dining-room and those that were to go to the servants’ 
hall. She understood, however, that it would not be 
wise to give way to her feeling, and that the only way 
she could hope to retain her situation was by doing 
nothing to attract attention. She must learn to con- 
trol that temper of hers — she must and would. And it 
was in this frame of mind and with this determination 
that she entered the servants’ hall. 

There were not more than ten or eleven at dinner, 
but sitting close together they seemed more numerous, 
and quite half the number of faces that looked up, as 
she took her place next to Margaret Gale, were 
unknown to her. There were the four ugly little 
boys whom she had seen on the race-horses, but she 
did not recognize them at first, and nearly opposite, 
sitting next to the lady’s-maid, was a small, sandy- 
haired man about forty: he was beginning to show 
signs of stoutness, and two little round whiskers grew 
on his pallid cheeks. Mr. Randal sat at the end of the 
table helping the pudding. He addressed the sandy- 
haired man as Mr. Swindles; but Esther learnt after- 
wards his real name was Ward, and that he was Mr. 
Barfield’s head groom. She learnt, too, that “the 
Demon” was not the real name of the little carroty- 
haired boy, and she looked at him in amazement when 
he whispered in her ear that he would dearly Igve a 
real go-in at that pudding, but it was so fattening that 
he didn’t ever dare to venture on more than a couple 
of sniffs. Seeing that the girl did not understand, he 
added, by way of explanation, “You know that I must 
keep under the six stone, and at times it becomes 
awful ’ard.’’ 


21 


ESTHER WATTERS 

/ 

Esther thought him a’nice little fellow, and tried to 
persuade him to forego his resolution not to touch 
pudding, until Mr. Swindles told her to desist. The 
attention of the whole table being thus drawn towards 
the boy, Esther was still further surprised at the 
admiration he seemed so easily to command and the 
important position he seemed to occupy, notwithstand- 
ing his diminutive stature, whereas the bigger boys 
were treated with very little consideration. The 
long-nosed lad, with weak eyes and sloping shoulders, 
who sat on the other side of the table on Mr. Swindles’ 
left, was everybody’s laughing-stock, especially Mr. 
Swindles’, who did not cease to poke fun at him. Mr. 
Swindles was now telling poor Jim’s misadventures 
with the Gaffer. 

“But why do you call him Mr. Leopold when his 
name is Mr. Randal?’’ Esther ventured to inquire of 
the Demon. 

“On account of Leopold Rothschild,’’ said the 
Demon; “he’s pretty near as rich, if the truth was 
known — won a pile over the City and Sub. Pity you 
weren’t there; might have had a bit on.’’ 

“I have never seen the City,’’ Esther replied inno- 
cently. 

“Never seen the City and Sub! ... I was up, had 
a lot in hand, so I came away from my ’orses the 
moment I got into the dip. The Tinman nearly 
caught me on the post — came with a terrific rush ; he 
is just hawful, that Tinman is. I did catch it from the 
Gaffer — he did give it me. ” 

The plates of all the boys except the Demon’s were 
now filled with beefsteak, pudding, potatoes, and 
greens, likewise Esther’s. Mr. Leopold, Mr. Swin- 


22 


ESTHER WATERS 


dies, the housemaid, and the cook dined off the leg of 
mutton, a small slice of which was sent to the Demon. 
“That for a dinner!” and as he took up his knife and 
fork and cut a small piece of his one slice, he said, “I 
suppose you never had to reduce yourself three 
pounds; girls never have. I do run to flesh so, you 
wouldn’t believe it. If I don’t walk to Portsdale and 
back every second day, I go up three or four pounds. 
Then there’s nothing for it but the physic, and that’s 
what settles me. Can you take physic?” 

“I took three Beecham’s pills once.” 

“Oh, that’s nothing. Can you take castor-oil?” 

Esther looked in amazement at the little boy at her 
side. Swindles had overheard the question and burst 
into a roar of laughter Everyone wanted to know 
what the joke was, and, feeling they were poking fun 
at her, Esther refused to answer. 

The first helpings of pudding or mutton had taken 
the edge off their appetites, and before sending their 
plates for more they leaned over the table listening 
and laughing open-mouthed. It was a bare room, lit 
with one window, against which Mrs. Latch’s austere 
figure appeared in dark-grey silhouette. The window 
looked on one of the little back courts and tiled ways 
which had been built at the back of the house; and 
the shadowed northern light softened the listening 
faces with grey tints. 

“You know,” said Mr. Swindles, glancing at Jim as 
if to assure himself that the boy was there and unable 
to escape from the hooks of his sarcasm, “how fast the 
Gaffer talks, and how he hates to be asked to repeat 
his words. Knowing this, Jim always says, ‘Yes, sir; 
yes, sir.’ ‘Now do you quite understand?’ says the 


ESTHBR WATERS 


23 


Gaffer. ‘Yes, sir; yes, sir,’ replies Jim, not having 
understood one word of what was said ; but relying on 
us to put him right. ‘Now what did he say I was to 
do?’ says Jim, the moment the Gaffer is out of hearing. 
But this morning we were on ahead, and the Gaffer 
had Jim all to himself. As usual he says, ‘Now do 
you quite understand?’ and as usual Jim says, ‘Yes, 
sir; yes, sir.’ Suspecting that Jim had not under- 
stood, I said when he joined us, ‘Now if you are not 
sure what he said you had better go back and ask him, ’ 
but Jim declared that he had perfectly understood. 
‘And what did he tell you to do?’ said I. ‘He told 
me,’ says Jim, ‘to bring the colt along and finish up 
close by where he would be standing at the end of the 
track. ’ I thought it rather odd to send Firefly such a 
stiff gallop as all that, but Jim was certain that he had 
heard right. And off they went, beginning the other 
side of Southwick Hill. I saw the Gaffer with his 
arms in the air, and don’t know now what he said. 
Jim will tell you. He did give it you, didn’t he, you 
old Woolgatherer?” said Mr. Swindles, slapping the 
boy on the shoulder. 

“You may laugh as much as you please, but I’m 
sure he did tell me to come along three-quarter speed 
after passing the barn,’’ replied Jim, and to change 
the conversation he asked Mr. Leopold for some more 
pudding, and the Demon’s hungry eyes watched the 
last portion being placed on the Woolgatherer ’s plate. 
Noticing that Esther drank no beer, he exclaimed — 

“Well, I never; to see yer eat and drink one would 
think that it was you who was a- wasting to ride the 
crack at Goodwood. ’ ’ 

The remark was received with laughter, and, excited 


24 


ESTHER WATERS 


by his success, the Demon threw his arms round 
Esther, and seizing her hands, said, “Now yer a jest 
beginning to get through yer ’osses, and when you get 
on a level “ But the Demon, in his hungry merri- 

ment, had bestowed no thought of finding a temper in 
such a staid little girl, and a sound box on the ear 
threw him backwards into his seat surprised and howl- 
ing. “Yer nasty thing ! “ he blubbered out. ‘ ‘ Couldn ’ t 
you see it was only a joke?” But passion was hot in 
Esther. She had understood no word that had been 
said since she had sat down to dinner, and, conscious 
of her poverty and her ignorance, she imagined that a 
great deal of the Demon’s conversation had been 
directed against her; and, choking with indignation, 
she only heard indistinctly the reproaches with which 
the other little boys covered her — “nasty, dirty, ill- 
tempered thing, scullery-maid, ’ ’ etc. ; nor did she 
understand their whispered plans to duck her when 
she passed the stables. All looked a little askance, 
especially Grover and Mr. Leopold. Margaret said — 

“That will teach these impertinent little jockey-boys 
that the servants’ hall is not the harness-room; they 
oughtn’t to be admitted here at all.” 

Mr. Leopold nodded, and told the Demon to leave 
off blubbering. “You can’t be so much hurt as all 
that. Come, wipe your eyes and have a piece of cur- 
rant tart, or leave the room. I want to hear from 
Mr. Swindles an account of the trial. We know that 
Silver Braid won, but we haven’t heard how he won 
nor yet what the weights were.” 

“Well,” said Mr. Swindles, “what I makes out is 
this. I was riding within a pound or two of nine 
stone, and The Rake is, as you know, seven pounds, 


ESTHER WATERS 


25 


no more, worse than Bayleaf. Ginger rides usually as 
near as possible my weight — we’ll say he was riding 
nine two — I think he could manage that — and the 
Demon, we know, he is now riding over the six stone ; 
in his ordinary clothes he rides six seven. ’ ’ 

“Yes, yes, but how do we know that there was any 
lead to speak of in the Demon’s saddle-cloth?” 

“The Demon says there wasn’t above a stone. 
Don’t you, Demon?” 

“I don’t know nothing! I’m not going to stand 
being clouted by the kitchen-maid. ’ ’ 

“Oh, shut up, or leave the room,” said Mr. Leopold; 
“we don’t want to hear any more about that.” 

“I started making the running according to orders. 
Ginger was within three-quarters of a length of me, 
being pulled out of the saddle. The Gaffer was stand- 
ing at the three-quarters of the mile, and there Ginger 
won fairly easily, but they went on to the mile — them 
were the orders — and there the Demon won by half a 
length, that is to say if Ginger wasn’t a-kidding of 
him.” 

“A-kidding of me!” said the Demon. “When we 
was a hundred yards from ’ome I steadied without his 
noticing me, and then I landed in the last fifty yards 
by half a length. Ginger can’t ride much better than 
any other gentleman. ’ ’ 

“Yer see,” said Mr. Swindles, “he’d sooner have a 
box on the ear from the kitchen-maid than be told a 
gentleman could kid him at a finish. He wouldn’t 
mind if it was the Tinman, eh. Demon?” 

“We know,” said Mr. Leopold, “that Bayleaf can 
get the mile; there must have been a lot of weight 
between them. Besides, I should think that the trial 


26 


ESTHER WATERS 


was at the three-quarters of the mile. The mile was 
so much -kid. ’ ’ 

“I should say,” replied Mr. Swindles, “that the 
’orses were tried at twenty-one pounds, and if Silver 
Braid can beat Bayleaf at that weight, he’ll take a deal 
of beating at Goodwood.” 

And leaning forward, their arms on the table, with 
large pieces of cheese at the end of their knives, the 
maid-servants and the jockey listened while Mr. Leopold 
and Mr. Swindles discussed the chances the stable 
had of pulling off the Stewards’ Cup with Silver Braid. 

“But he will always keep on trying them,” said Mr. 
Swindles, “and what’s the use, says I, of trying ’orses 
that are no more than ’alf fit? And them downs is just 
rotten with ’orse watchers; it has just come to this, 
that you can’t comb out an ’orse’s mane without seeing 
it in the papers the day after. If I had my way with 

them gentry ” Mr. Swindles finished his beer at a 

gulp, and he put down his glass as firmly as he desired 
to put down the horse watchers. At the end of a long 
silence Mr. Leopold said — 

“Come into my pantry and smoke a pipe. Mr. 
Arthur will be down presently. Perhaps he’ll tell us 
what weight he was riding this morning. ’ ’ 

“Cunning old bird,” said Mr. Swindles, as he rose 
from the table and wiped his shaven lips with the back 
of his hand; “and you’d have us believe that you 
didn’t know, would you? You’d have us believe, would 
you, that the Gaffer don’t tell you everything when 
you bring up his hot water in the morning, would you?” 

Mr. Leopold laughed under his breath, and looking 
mysterious and very rat-like he led the way to his pan- 
try. Esther watched them in strange trouble of soul. 


ESTHER WATERS 


27 


She had heard of racecourses as shameful places 
where men were led to their ruin, and betting she 
had always understood to be sinful, but in this house 
no one seemed to think of anything else. It was no 
place for a Christian girl. 

“Let’s have some more of the story,’’ Margaret said. 
“You’ve got the new number. The last piece was 
where he is going to ask the opera-singer to run away 
with him.’’ 

Sarah took an illustrated journal out of her pocket 
and began to read aloud. 


III. 


Esther was one of the Plymouth Brethren. In their 
chapel, if the house in which they met could be called 
a chapel, there were neither pictured stories of saints, 
nor vestments, nor music, nor even imaginative stim- 
ulant in the shape of written prayers. Her knowledge 
of life was strictly limited to her experience of life; 
she knew no drama of passion except that which the 
Gospels relate : this story in the Family Reader was 
the first representation of life she had met with, and 
its humanity thrilled her like the first idol set up for 
worship. The actress told Norris that she loved him. 
They were on a balcony, the sky was blue, the moon 
was shining, the warm scent of the mignonette came 
up from the garden below, the man was in evening 
dress with diamond shirt studs, the actress’s arm was 
large and white. They had loved each other for 
years. The strangest events had happened for the 
purpose of bringing them together, and, fascinated 
against her will, Esther could not but listen. But at 
the end of the chapter the racial instinct forced 
reproval from her. 

am sure it is wicked to read such tales.” 

Sarah looked at her in mute astonishment. Grover 
said — 

“You shouldn’t be here at all. Can’t Mrs. Latch 
find nothing for you to do in the scullery?” 

“Then,” said Sarah, awaking to a sense of the situ- 
28 


ESTHER WATERS 


29 


ation, “I suppose that where you come from you were 
not so much as allowed to read a tale ; . . . dirty 

little chapel-going folk!” 

The incident might have closed with this reproval 
had not Margaret volunteered the information that 
Esther’s box was full of books. 

“I should like to see them books,” said Sarah. “I’ll 
be bound that they are only prayer-books. ’ ’ 

“I don’t mind what you say to me, but you 'shall not 
insult my religion.” 

“Insult your religion! I said you never had read a 
book in your life unless it was a prayer-book. * ’ 

“We don’t use prayer-books.” 

“Then what books have you read?” 

Esther hesitated, her manner betrayed her, and, sus- 
pecting the truth, Sarah said : 

“I don’t believe that you can read at all. Come, 
I’ll bet you twopence that you can’t read the first five 
lines of my story. ’ ’ 

Esther pushed the paper from her and walked out of 
the room in a tumult of grief and humiliation. Wood- 
view and all belonging to it had grown unbearable, and 
heedless to what complaint the cook might make 
against her she ran upstairs and shut herself into her 
room. She asked why they should take pleasure in 
torturing her. It was not her fault if she did not know 
how to read. There were the books she loved for her 
mother’s sake, the books that had brought such dis- 
grace upon her. Even the names she could not read, 
and the shame of her ignorance lay upon her heavier 
than a weight of lead. “Peter Parley’s Annual,” 
“Sunny Memories of Foreign Lands,” “Children of the 
Abbey,” “Uncle Tom’s Cabin,” Lamb’s “Tales of 


30 


ESTHER WATERS 


Shakespeare’s Plays,” a Cooking Book, “Roda’s Mis- 
sion of Love, ’ ’ the Holy Bible and the Common Prayer 
Book. 

She turned them over, wondering what were the 
mysteries that this print held -from her. It was to her 
mysterious as the stars. 

Esther Waters came from Barnstaple. She had 
been brought up in the strictness of the Plymouth 
Brethren, and her earliest memories were of prayers, 
of narrow, peaceful family life. This early life had 
lasted till she was ten years old. Then her father died. 
He had been a house-painter, but in early youth he 
had been led into intemperance by some wild compan- 
ions. He was often not in a fit state to go to work, 
and one day the fumes of the beer he had drunk over- 
powered him as he sat in the strong sunlight on his 
scaffolding. In the hospital he called upon God to 
relieve him of his suffering ; then the Brethren said, 
“You never thought of God before. Be patient, your 
health is coming back ; it is a present from God ; you 
would like to know Him and thank Him from the bot- 
tom of your heart?” 

John Waters’ heart was touched. He became one 
of the Brethren, renouncing those companions who 
refused to follow into the glory of God. His conver- 
sion and subsequent grace won for him the sympathies 
of Mary Thomby. But Mary’s father would not con- 
sent to the marriage unless John abandoned his dan- 
gerous trade of house-painter. John Waters consented 
to do this, and old James Thornby, who had made a 
competence in the curiosity line, offered to make over 
his shop to the young couple on certain conditions; 
these conditions were accepted, and under his father- 


ESTHER WATERS 


31 


in-law*s direction John drove a successful trade in old 
glass, old jewellery, and old furniture. 

The Brethren liked not this trade, and they often 
came to John to speak with him on the subject, and 
their words were — 

“Of course this is between you and the Lord, but 
these things” (pointing to the old glass and jewellery) 
“often are but snares for the feet, and lead weaker 
brethren into temptation. Of course, it is between 
you and the Lord. ” 

So John Waters was tormented with scruples con- 
cerning the righteousness of his trade, but his wife’s 
gentle voice and eyes, and the limitations that his acci- 
dent, from which he had never wholly recovered, had 
set upon his life, overruled his scruples, and he 
remained until he died a dealer in artistic ware, elim- 
inating, however, from his dealings those things to 
which the Brethren most strongly objected. 

When he died his widow strove to carry on the busi- 
ness, but her father, who was now a confirmed invalid, 
could not help her. In the following year she lost 
both her parents. Many changes were taking place in 
Barnstaple, new houses were being built, a much 
larger and finer shop had been opened in the more 
prosperous end of the town, and Mrs. Waters found 
herself obliged to sell her business for almost nothing, 
and marry again. Children were bom of this second 
marriage in rapid succession, the cradle was never 
empty, and Esther was spoken of as the little nurse. 
Her great solicitude was for her poor mother, who had 
lost her health, whose blood was impoverished by con- 
stant child-bearing. Mother and daughter were seen 
in the evenings, one with a baby at her breast, the 


32 


ESTHER WATERS 


other with an eighteen months old child in her arms. 
Esther did not dare leave her mother, and to protect 
her she gave up school, and this was why she had 
never learnt how to read. 

One of the many causes of quarrel between Mrs. 
Saunders and her husband was her attendance at 
prayer-meetings when he said she should be at home 
minding her children. He used to accuse her of 
carrying on with the Scripture-readers, and to punish 
her he would say, “This week I’ll spend five bob more 
in the public — that’ll teach you, if beating won’t, that 
I don’t want none of your hypocritical folk hanging 
round my place. ’ ’ So it befell the Saunders family to 
have little to eat ; and Esther often wondered how she 
should get a bit of dinner for her sick mother and her 
hungry little brothers and sisters. Once they passed 
nearly thirty hours without food. She called them 
round her, and knelt down amid them : they prayed 
that God might help them; and their prayers were 
answered, for at half-past twelve a Scripture lady came 
in with flowers in her hands. She asked Mrs. Saun- 
ders how her appetite was. Mrs. Saunders answered 
that it was more than she could afford, for there was 
nothing to eat in the house. Then the Scripture lady 
gave them eighteen pence, and they all knelt down and 
thanked God together. 

But although Saunders spent a great deal of his 
money in the public-house, he rarely got drunk and 
always kept his employment. He was a painter of 
engines, a first-rate hand, earning good money, from 
twenty-five to thirty shillings a week. He was a 
proud man, but so avaricious that he stopped at noth- 
ing to get money. He was an ardent politician, yet he 


ESTHER WATERS 


33 


would sell his vote to the highest bidder, and when 
Esther was seventeen he compelled her to take service 
regardless of the character of the people or of what 
the place was like. They had left Barnstaple many 
months, and were now living in a little street off the 
Vauxhall Bridge Road, near the factory where Saun- 
ders worked; and since they had been in London 
Esther had been constantly in service. Why should 
he keep her? She wasn’t one of his children, he had 
quite enough of his own. Sometimes of an evening, 
when Esther could escape from her drudgery for a few 
minutes, her mother would step round, and mother and 
daughter, wrapped in the same shawl, would walk to 
and fro telling each other their troubles, just as in old 
times. But these moments were few. In grimy 
lodging-houses she worked from early morning till late 
at night, scrubbing grates, preparing bacon and eggs, 
cooking chops, and making beds. She had become 
one of those London girls to whom rest, not to say 
pleasure, is unknown, who if they should sit down for 
a few moments hear the mistress’s voice, “Now, Eliza, 
have you nothing to do, that you are sitting there idle?’’ 
Two of her mistresses, one after the other, had been 
sold up, and now all the rooms in the neighbourhood 
were unlet, no one wanted a “slavey,’’ and Esther 
was obliged to return home. It was on the last of 
these occasions that her father had taken her by the 
shoulders, saying — 

“No lodging-houses that want a slavey? I’ll see 
about that. Tell me, first, have you been to 78?’’ 

“Yes, but another girl was before me, and the place 
was taken when I arrived.’’ 

“I wonder what you were doing that you didn’t get 


34 


ESTHER WATERS 


there sooner ; dangling about after your mother, I sup- 
pose! Well, what about 27 in the Crescent?” 

“I couldn’t go there — that Mrs. Dunbar is a bad 
woman. ’ ’ 

‘‘Bad woman! Who are you, I should like to know, 
that you can take a lady’s character away? Who told 
you she was a bad woman? One of the Scripture- 
readers, I suppose! I knew it was. Well, then, just 
get out of my house. ” 

“Where shall I go?” 

“ Go to hell for all I care. Do you hear me ? Get out ! ’ ’ 
Esther did not move — words, and then blows. 
Esther’s escape from her stepfather seemed a miracle, 
and his anger was only appeased by Mrs. Saunders 
promising that Esther should accept the situation. 

“Only for a little while. Perhaps Mrs. Dunbar is a 
better woman than you think for. For my sake, 
dearie. If you don’t he may kill you and me too. ” 
Esther looked at her one moment, then she said, 
“Very well, mother, to-morrow I’ll take the place.” 

No longer was the girl starved, no longer was she 
made to drudge till the thought of another day was a 
despair and a terror. And seeing that she was a good 
girl, Mrs. Dunbar respected her scruples. Indeed, she 
was very kind, and Esther soon learnt to like her, and, 
through her affection for her, to think less of the life 
she led. A dangerous point is this in a young girl’s 
life. Esther was young, and pretty, and weary, and 
out of health ; and it was at this critical moment that 
Lady Elwin, who, while visiting, had heard her 
story, promised Mrs. Saunders to find Esther another 
place. And to obviate all difficulties about references 
and character. Lady Elwin proposed to take Esther as 


ESTHER WATERS 


35 


her own servant for a sufficient while to justify her in 
recommending’ her. 

And now, as she turned over her books — the books 
she could not read — her pure and passionate mind was 
filled with the story of her life. She remembered her 
poor little brothers and sisters and her dear mother, 
and that tyrant revenging himself upon them because 
of the little she might eat and drink. No, she must 
bear with all insults and scorn, and forget that they 
thought her as dirt under their feet. But what were 
such sufferings compared to those she would endure 
were she to return home? In truth they were as noth- 
ing. And yet the girl longed to leave Woodview. She 
had never been out of sight of home before. Amid 
the violences of her stepfather there had always been 
her mother and the meeting-house. In Woodview 
there was nothing, only Margaret, who had come to 
console and persuade her to come downstairs. The 
resolution she had to call out of her soul to do this 
exhausted her, and she went downstairs heedless of 
what anyone might say. 

Two and three days passed without anything occur- 
ring that might suggest that the Fates were for or against 
her remaining. Mrs. Barfield continued to be indis- 
posed, but at the end of the week Esther, while she was 
at work in the scullery, heard a new voice speaking 
with Mrs. Latch. This must be Mrs. Barfield. She 
heard Mrs. Latch tell the story of her refusal to go to 
work the evening she arrived. But Mrs. Barfield told 
her that she would listen to no further complaints ; this 
was the third kitchen-maid in four months, and Mrs. 
Latch must make up her mind to bear with the faults 
and failings of this last one, whatever they were. 


36 


ESTHER WATERS 


Then Mrs. Barfield called Esther; and when she 
entered the kitchen she found herself face to face with 
a little red-haired woman, with a pretty, pointed face. 

“I hear. Waters — that is your name, I think — that 
you refused to obey cook, and walked out of the 
kitchen the night you arrived.” 

“I said, ma’am, that I would wait till my box came 
up from the station, so that I might change my dress. 
Mrs. Latch said my dress didn’t matter, but when one 
is poor and hasn’t many dresses ” 

“Are you short of clothes, then?” 

“I have not many, ma’am, and the dress I had on 
the day I came ” 

“Never mind about that. Tell me, are you short of 
clothes? — for if you are I daresay my daughter might 
find you something — you are about the same height — 
with a little alteration ’ ’ 

“Oh, ma’am, you are too good. I shall be most 
grateful. But I think I shall be able to manage till 
my first quarter’s wages come to me.” 

And the scowl upon Mrs. Latch’s long face did not 
kill the pleasure which the little interview with that 
kind, sweet woman, Mrs. Barfield, had created in her. 
She moved about her work, happy at heart, singing to 
herself as she washed the vegetables. Even Mrs. 
Latch’s harshness didn’t trouble her much. She felt 
it to be a manner under which there might be a kind 
heart, and she hoped by her willingness to work to 
gain at least the cook’s toleration. Margaret suggested 
that Esther should give up her beer. A solid pint 
extra a day could not fail, she said, to win the old 
woman’s gratitude, and perhaps induce her to teach 
Esther how to make pastry and jellies. 


ESTHER WATERS 


37 


True that Margaret joined in the common laugh and 
jeer that the knowledge that Esther said her prayers 
morning and evening inspired. She sometimes united 
with Grover and Sarah in perplexing Esther with 
questions regarding her previous situations, but her 
hostilities were, on the whole, gentle, and Esther felt 
that this almost neutral position was the best that 
Margaret could have adopted. She defended her 
without seeming to do so, and seemed genuinely fond of 
her, helping her sometimes even with her work, which 
Mrs. Latch made as heavy as possible. But Esther 
was now determined to put up with every task they 
might impose upon her; she would give them no 
excuse for sending her away; she would remain at 
Woodview until she had learned sufficient cooking to 
enable her to get another place. But Mrs. Latch had 
the power to thwart her in this. Before beginning on 
her jellies and gravies Mrs. Latch was sure to find 
some saucepans that had not been sufficiently cleaned 
with white sand, and, if her search proved abortive, 
she would send Esther upstairs to scrub out her 
bedroom. 

“I cannot think why she is so down upon me,” 
Esther often said to Margaret. 

“She isn’t more down upon you than she was on the 
others. You needn’t expect to learn any cooking from 
her ; her plan has always been to take care that she 
shall not be supplanted by any of her kitchen-maids. 
But I don’t see why she should be always sending you 
upstairs to clean out her bedroom. If Grover wasn’t 
so stand-offish, we might tell her about it, and she 
could tell the Saint — that’s what we call the missis; 
the Saint would soon put a stop to all that nonsense. 


38 


ESTHER WATERS 


I will say that for the Saint, she do like everyone to 
have fair play. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Barfield, or the Saint, as she was called, 
belonged, like Esther, to the sect known as the 
Plymouth Brethren. She was the daughter of one of 
the farmers on the estate — a very old man called 
Elliot. He had spent his life on his barren down 
farm, becoming intimate with no one, driving hard 
bargains with all, especially the squire and the poor 
flint-pickers. He could be seen still on the hill-sides, 
his long black coat buttoned strictly about him, his soft 
felt hat crushed over the thin, grey face. Pretty 
Fanny Elliot had won the squire’s heart as he rode 
across the down. Do you not see the shy figure of the 
Puritan maiden tripping through the gorse, hastening 
the hoofs of the squire’s cob? And, furnished with 
some pretext of estate business, he often rode to the 
farm that lay under the shaws at the end of the 
coombe. The squire had to promise to become one of 
the Brethren, and he had to promise never to bet 
again, before Fanny Elliot agreed to become Mrs. Bar- 
field. The ambitious members of the Barfield family 
declared that the marriage was social ruin, but more 
dispassionate critics called it a very suitable match ; 
for it was not forgotten that three generations ago the 
Barfields were livery-stable i^eepers ; they had risen in 
the late squire’s time to the level of county families, 
and the envious were now saying that the Barfield 
family was sinking back whence it came. 

He was faithful to his promises for a time. Race- 
horses disappeared from the Woodview stables. It 
was not until after the birth of both his children that 
he entered one of his hunters in the hunt steeplechase. 


ESTHER WATERS 


39 


Soon after the racing stable was again in full swing at 
Wood view. Tears there were, and some family dis- 
union, but time extorts concessions from all of us. 
Mrs. Barfield had ceased to quarrel with her husband 
on the subject of his race-horses, and he in his turn did 
not attempt to restrict her in the exercise of her reli- 
gion. She attended prayer-meetings when her soul 
moved her, and read the Scriptures when and where 
she pleased. 

It was one of her practices to have the women-serv- 
ants for half-an-hour every Sunday afternoon in the 
library, and instruct them in the life of Christ. Mrs. 
Barfield’s goodness was even as a light upon her little 
oval face — reddish hair growing thin at the parting and 
smoothed back above the ears, as in an old engraving. 
Although nearly fifty, her figure was slight as a young 
girl’s. Esther was attracted by the magnetism of 
racial and religious affinities ; and when their eyes met 
at prayers there was acknowledgment of religious 
kinship. A glow of happiness filled Esther’s soul, for 
she knew ; she was no longer wholly among strangers ; 
she knew they were united — she and her mistress — 
under the sweet dominion of Christ. To look at Mrs. 
Barfield filled her, somehow, with recollections of her 
pious childhood ; she saw herself in the old shop, mov- 
ing again in an atmosphere of prayer, listening to the 
beautiful story, in the annunciation of which her life 
had grown up. She answered her mistress’s questions 
in sweet light-heartedness of spirit, pleasing her with 
her knowledge of the Holy Book. But in turn the 
servants had begun to read verses aloud from the New 
Testament, and. Esther saw that her secret would be 
torn from her. Sarah had read a verse, and Mrs. 


40 


ESTHER WATERS 


Barfield had explained it, and now Margaret was 
reading. Esther listened, thinking if she might plead 
illness and escape from the room ; but she could not 
summon sufficient presence of mind, and while she was 
still agitated and debating with herself, Mrs. Barfield 
called to her to continue. She hung down her head, 
suffocated with the shame of the exposure, and when 
Mrs. Barfield told her again to continue the reading 
Esther shook her head. 

“Can you not read, Esther?” she heard a kind voice 
saying ; and the sound of this voice loosed the feelings 
long pent up, and the girl, giving way utterly, burst 
into passionate weeping. She was alone with her 
suffering, conscious of nothing else, until a kind hand 
led her from the room, and this hand soothed away the 
bitterness of the tittering which reached her ears as the 
door closed. It was hard to persuade her to speak, 
but even the first words showed that there was more 
on the girl’s heart than could be told in a few minutes. 
Mrs. Barfield determined to take the matter at once in 
hand ; she dismissed the other servants and returned 
to the library with Esther, and in that dim room of 
little green sofas, bookless shelves, and bird-cages, the 
women — mistress and maid — sealed the bond of a 
friendship which was to last for life. 

Esther told her mistress everything — the work that 
Mrs. Latch required of her, the persecution she 
received from the other servants, principally because 
of her religion. In the course of the narrative allusion 
was made to the race-horses, and Esther saw on Mrs. 
Barfield’s face a look of grief, and it was clear to what 
cause Mrs. Barfield attributed the demoralisation of 
her household. 


ESTHER WATERS 


41 


“I will teach you how to read, Esther. Every Sun- 
day after our Bible instruction you shall remain when 
the others have left for half-an-hour. It is not diffi- 
cult; you will soon learn.” 

Henceforth, every Sunday afternoon, Mrs. Barfield 
devoted half-an-hour to the instruction of her kitchen- 
maid. These half-hours were bright spots of happi- 
ness in the serving-girl’s weeks of work — happiness 
that had been and would be again. But although 
possessing a clear intelligence, Esther did not make 
much progress, nor did her diligence seem to help her. 
Mrs. Barfield was puzzled by her pupil’s slowness; she 
ascribed it to her own inaptitude to teach and the little 
time for lessons. Esther’s powerlessness to put sylla- 
bles together, to grasp the meaning of words, was very 
marked. Strange it was, no doubt, but all that con- 
cerned the printed page seemed to embarrass and elude 
her. 


IV. 


Esther’s position in Woodview was now assured, and 
her fellow-servants recognised the fact, though they 
liked her none the better for it. Mrs. Latch still did 
what she could to prevent her from learning her trade, 
but she no longer attempted to overburden her with 
work. Of Mr. Leopold she saw almost as little as she did 
of the people upstairs. He passed along the passages 
or remained shut up in his pantry. Ginger used to go 
there to smoke; and when the door stood ajar Esther 
saw his narrow person seated on the edge of the table, 
his leg swinging. Among the pantry people Mr. Leo- 
pold’s erudition was a constant subject of admiration. 
His reminiscences of the races of thirty years ago were 
full of interest; he had seen the great horses whose 
names live in the stud-book, the horses the Gaffer had 
owned, had trained, had ridden, and he was full of 
anecdote concerning them and the Gaffer. Praise of^his 
father’s horsemanship always caused a cloud to gather 
on Ginger’s face, and when he left the pantry Swindles 
chuckled. “Whenever I wants to get a rise out of 
Ginger I says, ‘Ah, we shall never see another gentle- 
man jock who can use the whip at a finish like the 
Governor in his best days. ’ ’ ’ 

Everyone delighted in the pantry, and to make Mr. 
Leopold comfortable Mr. Swindles used to bring in the 
wolf-skin rug that went out with the carriage, and wrap 
it round Mr. Leopold’s wooden armchair, and the sallow 

42 


ESTHER WATERS 


43 


little man would curl himself up, and, smoking his long 
clay, discuss the weights of the next big handicap. If 
Ginger contradicted him he would go to the press and 
extract from its obscurity a package of Bell's Life or a 
file of the Sportsman. 

Mr. Leopold’s press! For forty years no one had 
looked into that press. Mr. Leopold guarded it from 
every gaze, but it seemed to be a much-varied reposi- 
tory from which, if he chose, he could produce almost 
any trifle that might be required. It seemed to com- 
bine the usefulness of a hardware shop and a drug 
store. 

The pantry had its etiquette and its discipline. 
Jockey boys were rarely admitted, unless with the 
intention of securing their services for the cleaning of 
boots or knives. William was very proud of his right 
of entry. For that half-hour in the pantry he would 
willingly surrender the pleasure of walking in the 
drove-way with Sarah. But when Mrs. Latch learnt 
that he was there her face darkened, and the noise she 
then made about the range with her saucepans was 
alarming. Mrs. Barfield shared her cook’s horror of 
the pantry, and often spoke of Mr. Leopold as “that 
little man.’’ Although outwardly the family butler, 
he had never ceased to be the Gaffer’s private servant; 
he represented the old days of bachelorhood. Mrs. 
Barfield and Mrs. Latch both disliked him. Had it 
not been for his influence Mrs. Barfield felt sure her 
husband would never have returned to his vice. Had 
it not been for Mr. Leopold Mrs. Latch felt that her 
husband would never have taken to betting. Legends 
and mystery had formed around Mr. Leopold and 
his pantry, and in Esther’s unsophisticated mind this 


44 


ESTHER WATERS 


little room, with its tobacco smoke and glasses on 
the table, became a symbol of all that was wicked and 
dangerous; and when she passed the door she closed 
her ears to the loud talk and instinctively lowered 
her eyes. 

The simplest human sentiments were abiding prin- 
ciples in Esther — love of God, and love of God in the 
home. But above this Protestantism was human 
nature ; and at this time Esther was, above all else, a 
young girl. Her twentieth year thrilled within her ; 
she was no longer weary with work, and new, rich 
blood filled her veins. She sang at her work, glad- 
dened by the sights and sounds of the yard ; the young 
rooks cawing lustily in the evergreens, the gardener 
passing to and fro with plants in his hands, the white 
cats licking themselves in the sun or running to meet 
the young ladies who brought them plates of milk. 
Then the race-horses were always going to or coming 
from the downs. Sometimes they came in so covered 
with white mud that part of their toilette was accom- 
plished in the yard ; and from her kitchen window she 
could see the beautiful creature haltered to the hook 
fixed in the high wall, and the little boy in his shirt- 
sleeves and hitched-up trousers, not a bit afraid, but 
shouting and quieting him into submission with the 
stick when he kicked and bit, tickled by the washing 
brush passing under the belly. Then the wrestling, 
sparring, ball-playing of the lads when their work was 
done, the pale, pathetic figure of the Demon watching 
them. He was about to start for Portsdale and back, 
wrapped, as he would put it, in a red-hot scorcher of 
an overcoat. 

Esther often longed for a romp with these boys ; she 


ESTHER WATERS 


45 


was now prime favourite with them. Once they 
caught her in the hay yard, and fine sport it was in the 
warm hay throwing each other over. Sometimes her 
wayward temper would get the better of her, but her 
momentary rage vanished at the sound of laughter. 
And after their tussling they would walk a little while 
pensively, until perhaps one, with an adroit trip, 
would send the other rolling over on the grass, and 
then, with wild cries, they would run down the drove- 
way. Then there was the day when the Wool-gatherer 
told her he was in love, and what fun they had had, 
and how well she had led him into belief that she was 
jealous ! She had taken a rope as if she were going to 
hang herself, and having fastened it to a branch, she 
had knelt down as if she were saying her prayers. 
The poor Wool-gatherer could stand it no longer; he 
had rushed to her side, swearing that if she would 
promise not to hang herself he would never look at 
another girl again. The other boys, who had been 
crouching in the drove-way, rose up. How they did 
chaff the Wool-gatherer! He had burst into tears, 
and Esther had felt sorry for him, and almost inclined 
to marry him out of pity for his forlorn condition. 

Her life grew happier and happier. She forgot that 
Mrs. Latch would not teach her how to make jellies, 
and had grown somewhat used to Sarah’s allusions to 
her ignorance. She was still very poor, had not suffi- 
cient clothes, and her life was full of little troubles; 
but there were compensations. It was to her that 
Mrs. Barfield always came when she wanted anything 
in a hurry, and Miss Mary, too, seemed to prefer to 
apply to Esther when she wanted milk for her cats or 
bran and oats for her rabbits. 


46 


ESTHER WATERS 


The Gaffer and his race-horses, the Saint and her 
greenhouse — so went the stream of life at Wood view. 
What few visitors came were entertained by Miss 
Mary in the drawing-room or on the tennis lawn. 
Mrs. Barfield saw no one. She desired to remain in 
her old gown — an old thing that her daughter had 
discarded long ago — pinned up around her, and on her 
head an old bonnet with a faded poppy hanging from 
the crown. In such attire she wished to be allowed to 
trot about to and fro from her greenhouse to her pot- 
ting-shed, watering, pruning, and syringing her plants. 
These plants were dearer than all things to her except 
her children ; she seemed, indeed, to treat them as if 
they were children, and with the sun pouring through 
the glass down on her back she would sit freeing 
them from devouring insects all the day long. She 
would carry can after can of water up the long path 
and never complain of fatigue. She broke into com- 
plaint only when Miss Mary forgot to feed her pets, of 
which she had a great number — rabbits, and cats, and 
rooks, and all the work devolved upon her. She could 
not see these poor dumb creatures hungry, and would 
trudge to the stables, coming back laden with trusses 
of hay. But it was sometimes more than a pair of 
hands could do, and she would send Esther with scraps 
of meat and bread and milk to the unfortunate rooks 
that Mary had so unmercifully forgotten. “I’ll have 
no more pets,’’ she’d say; “Miss Mary won’t look after 
them, and all the trouble falls upon me. See these 
poor cats, how they come mewing round my skirts. ’ ’ 
She loved to expatiate on her inexhaustible affection 
for dumb animals, and she continued an anecdotal 
discourse till, suddenly wearying of it, she would break 


ESTHER WATERS 


47 


off and speak to Esther about Barnstaple and the 
Brethren. 

The Saint loved to hear Esther tell of her father and 
the little shop in Barnstaple, of the prayer-meetings 
and the simple earnestness and narrowness of the faith 
of those good Brethren. Circumstances had effaced, 
though they had not obliterated, the once sharply- 
marked confines of her religious habits. Her religion 
was like a garden — a little less sedulously tended than 
of yore, but no whit less fondly loved; and while 
listening to Esther’s story she dreamed her own early 
life over again, and paused, laying down her watering- 
can, penetrated with the happiness of gentle memories. 
So Esther’s life grew and was fashioned; so amid the 
ceaseless round of simple daily occupations mistress 
and maid learned to know and to love one another, and 
became united and strengthful in the tender and 
ineffable sympathies of race and religion. 


V. 


The summer drowsed, baking the turf on the hills, 
and after every gallop the Gaffer passed his fingers 
along the fine legs of the crack, in fear and apprehen- 
sion lest he should detect any swelling. William came 
every day for news. He had five shillings on; he 
stood to win five pounds ten — quite a little fortune — 
and he often stopped to ask Esther if there was any 
news as he made his way to the pantry. She told him 
that so far as she knew Silver Braid was all right, and 
continued shaking the rug. 

“You’ll never get the dust out of that rug,” he said 
at last; “here, give it to me.” She hesitated, then 
gave it him, and he beat it against the brick wall. 
“There,” he said, handing it back to her, “that’s how 
I beats a mat; you won’t find much dust in it now.” 

“Thank you. . . . Sarah went by an hour and a 

half ago.” 

“Ah, she must have gone to the Gardens. You 
have never been to those gardens, have you? Danc- 
ing-hall, theatre, sorcerers — every blessed thing. But 
you’re that religious, I suppose you wouldn’t come?” 

“It is only the way you are brought up.” 

“Well, will you come?” 

“I don’t think I should like those Gardens. . . . 

But I daresay they are no worse than any other place. 
I’ve heard so much since I was here, that really ” 

“That really what?” 


48 


ESTHER WATERS 


49 


“That sometimes it seems useless like to be par- 
ticular. ’ ’ 

“Of course — all rot. Well, will you come next Sun- 
day?” 

“Certainly not on Sunday.” 

The Gaffer had engaged him as footman : his livery 
would be ready by Saturday, and he would enter serv- 
ice on Monday week. This reminded them that hence- 
forth they would see each other every day, and, 
speaking of the pain it would give his mother when he 
came running downstairs to go out with the carriage, 
he said — 

“It was always her idea ’that I shouldn’t be a serv- 
ant, but I believe in doing what you gets most coin for 
doing. I should like to have been a jockey, and I 
could have ridden well enough — the Gaffer thought 
better at one time of my riding than he did of Gin- 
ger’s. But I never had any luck; when I was about 
fifteen I began to grow. . . . If I could have 
remained like the Demon ” 

Esther looked at him, wondering if he were speak- 
ing seriously, and really wished away his splendid 
height and shoulders. 

A few days later he tried to persuade her to take a 
ticket in a shilling sweepstakes which he was getting 
up among the out and the indoor servants. She 
pleaded poverty — her wages would not be due till the 
end of August. But William offered to lend her the 
money, and he pressed the hand containing the bits of 
paper on which were written the horses’ names so 
insinuatingly upon her that a sudden impulse to oblige 
him came over her, and before she had time to think 
she had put her hand in the hat and taken a number. 


50 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Come, none of your betting and gambling in my 
kitchen,” said Mrs. Latch, turning from her work. 
“Why can’t you leave that innocent girl alone?” 

“Don’t oe that disagreeable, mother; it ain’t bet- 
ting, it’s a sweepstakes.” 

“It is all the same,” muttered Mrs. Latch; “it 
always begins that way, and it goes on from bad to 
worse. I never saw any good come from it, and 
Heaven knows I’ve seen enough misfortune.” 

Margaret and Sarah paused, looking at her open- 
mouthed, a little perplexed, holding the numbers they 
had drawn in both hands. Esther had not unfolded 
hers. She looked at Mrs. Latch and regretted having 
taken the ticket in the lottery. She feared jeers from 
Sarah, or from Grover, who had just come in, for her 
inability to read the name of the horse she had drawn. 
Seeing her dilemma, William took her paper from her. 

“Silver Braid. . . . by Jingo! She has got the 

right one.” 

At that moment the sound of hoofs was heard in the 
yard, and the servants flew to the window. 

“He’ll win,” cried William, leaning over the 
women’s backs, waving his bony hand to the Demon, 
who rode past on Silver Braid. “The Gaffer will bring 
him to the post as fit as a fiddle. ’ ’ 

“I think he will,” said Mr. Leopold. “The rain has 
done us a lot of good; he was beginning to go a bit 
short a week ago. We shall want some more rain. I 
should like to see it come down for the next week or 
more. ’ ’ 

Mr. Leopold’s desires looked as if they were going to 
be fulfilled. The heavens seemed to have taken the 
fortunes of the stable in hand. Rain fell generally in 


ESTHER WATERS 


51 


the afternoon and night, leaving the mornings fine, 
and Silver Braid v^rent the mile gaily, becoming harder 
and stronger. And in the intermittent swish of show- 
ers blown up from the sea, Woodview grew joyous, 
and a conviction of ultimate triumph gathered and 
settled on every face except Mrs. Barfield’s and Mrs. 
Latch's. And askance they looked at the triumphant 
little butler. He became more and more the topic of 
conversation. He seemed to hold the thread of their 
destiny in his press. Peggy was especially afraid of 
him. 

And, continuing her confidences to the under-house- 
maid, the young lady said, “I like to know things for 
the pleasure of talking about them, but he for the 
pleasure of holding his tongue.” Peggy was Miss 
Margaret Barfield, a cousin, the daughter of a rich 
brewer. “If he brings in your letters in the morning 
he hands them to you just as if he knew whom they 
are from. Uglytlittle beast; it irritates me when he 
comes into the room. ’ ’ 

“He hates women, Miss; he never lets us near his 
pantry, and he keeps William there talking racing.” 

“Ah, William is very different. He ought never to 
have been a servant. His family was once quite as 
good as the Barfields. ” 

“So I have heard. Miss. But the world is that full 
of ups and downs you never can tell who is who. But 
we all likes William and ’ates that little man and his 
pantry. Mrs. Latch calls him the ‘evil genius.’ ” 

A furtive and clandestine little man, ashamed of his 
women-folk and keeping them out of sight as much as 
possible. His wife a pale, dim woman, tall as he was 
short, preserving still some of the graces of the lady’s- 


52 


ESTHER WATERS 


maid, shy either by nature or by the severe rule of her 
lord, always anxious to obliterate herself against the 
hedges when you met her in the lane or against the 
pantry door when any of the family knocked to ask for 
hot water, or came with a letter for the post. By 
nature a bachelor, he was instinctively ashamed of his 
family, and when the weary-looking wife, the thin, 
shy girl, or the corpulent, stupid-faced son were with 
him and he heard steps outside, he would come out like 
a little wasp, and, unmistakably resenting the intru- 
sion, would ask what was wanted. 

If it were Ginger, Mr. Leopold would say, “Can I do 
anything for you, Mr. Arthur?” 

“Oh, nothing, thank you; I only thought that ’* 

and Ginger would invent some paltry excuse and slink 
away to smoke elsewhere. 

Every day, a little before twelve, Mr. Leopold went 
out for his morning walk ; every day if it were fine you 
would meet him at that hour in the lane either com- 
ing from or going to Shoreham. For thirty years he 
had done his little constitutional, always taking the 
same road, always starting within a few minutes of 
twelve, always returning in time to lay the cloth for 
lunch at half-past one. The hour between twelve and 
one he spent in the little cottage which he rented from 
the squire for his wife and children, or in the ‘ ‘ Red 
Lion,” where he had a glass of beer and talked with 
Watkins, the bookmaker. 

“There he goes, off to the ‘Red Lion,’ ” said Mrs. 
Latch. “They try to get some information out of him, 
but he’s too sharp for them, and he knows it; that’s 
what he goes there for — just for the pleasure of seeing 
them swallow the lies he tells them. . . . He has 


BS THER WA TBRS 


53 


been telling them lies about the horses for the last 
twenty years, and still he gets them to believe what he 
says. It is a cruel shame! It was the lies he told 
poor Jackson about Blue Beard that made the poor 
man back the horse for all he was worth. ’ ’ 

“And the horse didn’t win?” 

“Win! The master didn’t even intend to run him, 
and Jackson lost all he had, and more. He went down 
to the river and drowned himself. John Randal has 
that man’s death on his conscience. But his con- 
science don’t trouble him much; if it did he’d be in hi^ 
grave long ago. Lies, lies, nothing but lies! But I 
daresay I’m too ’ard on him; isn’t lies our natural lot? 
What is servants for but to lie when it is in their 
master’s interest, and to be a confidential servant is to 
be the Prince of liars!” 

“Perhaps he didn’t know the ’orse was scratched.” 

“I see you are falling in nicely with the lingo of the 
trade.” 

“Oh,” replied Esther, laughing; “one never hears 
anything else ; one picks it up without knowing. Mr. 
Leopold is very rich, so they say. The boys tell me 
that he won a pile over the City and Suburban, and has 
thousands in the bank.’” 

“So some says; but who knows what he has? One 
hears of the winnings, but they say very little about 
the losings,” 


VI. 


The boys were playing ball in the stables, but she 
did not feel as if she wanted to romp with them. 
There was a stillness and a sweetness abroad which 
penetrated and absorbed her. She moved towards the 
paddock gate ; the pony and the donkey came towards 
Ijer, and she rubbed their muzzles in turn. It was a 
pleasure to touch anything, especially anything alive. 
She even noticed that the elm trees were strangely tall 
and still against the calm sky, and the rich odour of 
some carnations which came through the bushes from 
the pleasure-ground excited her ; the scent of earth and 
leaves tingled in her, and the cawing of the rooks com- 
ing home took her soul away skyward in an exquisite 
longing; she was, at the same time, full of a romantic 
love for the earth, and of a desire to mix herself with 
the innermost essence of things. The beauty of the 
evening and the sea breeze instilled a sensation of 
immortal health, and she wondered if a young man 
came to her as young men came to the great ladies in 
Sarah’s books, how it would be to talk in the dusk, 
seeing the bats flitting and the moon rising through 
the branches. 

The family was absent from Wood view, and she was 
free to enjoy the beauty of every twilight and every 
rising moon for still another week. But she wearied 
for a companion. Sarah and Grover were far too 
grand to walk out with her; and Margaret had a 

54 


ESTHER WATERS 


55 


young man who came to fetch her, and in their room 
at night she related all he had said. But for Esther 
there was nothing to do all the long summer evenings 
but to sit at the kitchen window sewing. Her hands 
fell on her lap, and her heart heaved a sigh of weari- 
ness. In all this world there was nothing for her to do 
but to continue her sewing or to go for a walk on the 
hill. She was tired of that weary hill ! But she could 
not sit in the kitchen till bedtime. She might meet 
the old shepherd coming home with his sheep, and she 
put a piece of bread in her pocket for his dogs and 
strolled up the hill-side. Margaret had gone down to 
the Gardens. One of these days a young man would 
come to take her out. What would he be like? She 
laughed the thought away. She did not think that any 
young man would bother much about her. Happen- 
ing at that moment to look round, she saw a man com- 
ing through the hunting gate. His height and 
shoulders told her that he was William. “Trying to 
find Sarah,” she thought. “I must not let him think 
I am waiting for him.” She continued her walk, 
wondering if he were following, afraid to look round. 
At last she fancied she could hear footsteps ; her heart 
beat faster. He called to her. 

“I think Sarah has gone to the Gardens,” she said, 
turning round. 

“You always keep reminding me of Sarah. There’s 
nothing between us; anything there ever was is all 
off long ago. . . . Are you going for a walk?” 

She was glad of the chance to get a mouthful of 
fresh air, and they went towards the hunting gate. 
William held it open and she passed through. 

The plantations were enclosed by a wooden fence, 


56 


ESTHER WATERS 


and beyond them the bare downs rose hill after hill. 
On the left the land sloped into a shallow valley sown 
with various crops; and the shaws about Elliot’s farm 
were the last trees. Beyond the farmhouse the downs 
ascended higher and higher, treeless, irreclaimable, 
scooped into long patriarchal solitudes, thrown into 
wild crests. 

There was a smell of sheep in the air, and the flock 
trotted past them in good order, followed by the shep- 
herd, a huge hat and a crook in his hand, and two 
shaggy dogs at his heels. A brace of partridges rose 
out of the sainfoin, and flew down the hills; and 
watching their curving flight Esther and William saw 
the sea under the sun-setting, and the string of coast 
towns. 

“A lovely evening, isn’t it?” 

Esther acquiesced ; and tempted by the warmth of 
the grass they sat down, and the mystery of the twi- 
light found way into their consciousness. 

‘‘We shan’t have any rain yet awhile.” 

‘‘How do you know?” 

‘‘I’ll tell you,” William answered, eager to show his 
superior knowledge. ‘‘Look due south-west, straight 
through that last dip in that line of hills. Do you see 
anything?” 

‘‘No, I can see nothing,” said Esther, after straining 
her eyes for a few moments. 

‘‘I thought not. . . . Well, if it was going to 

rain you would see the Isle of Wight.” 

For something to say, and hoping to please, Esther 
asked him where the race-course was. 

‘‘There, over yonder. I can’t show you the start, a 
long way behind that hill, Portslade way; then they 


ESTHER WATERS 


57 


come right along by that gorse and finish up by Truly 
barn— you can’t see Truly barn from here, that’s 
Thunder’s barrow barn; they go quite half a mile 
farther. ’ ' 

“And does all that land belong to the Gaffer?” 

“Yes, and a great deal more, too; but this down land 
isn’t worth much — not more than about ten shillings 
an acre. ’ ’ . 

“And how many acres are there?’’ 

“Do you mean all that we can see?’’ 

“Yes.’’ 

“The Gaffer’s property reaches to Southwick Hill, 
and it goes north a long way. I suppose you don’t 
know that all this piece, all that lies between us and 
that barn yonder, once belonged to my family. ’ ’ 

“To your family?’’ 

“Yes, the Latches were once big swells; in the time 
of my great-grandfather the Barfields could not hold 
their heads as high as the Latches. My great-grand- 
father had a pot of money, but it all went. ’ ’ 

“Racing?” 

“A good bit, I’ve no doubt. A rare ’ard liver, cock- 
fighting, ’unting, ’orse-racing from one year’s end to 
the other. Then after ’im came my grandfather; he 
went to the law, and a sad mess he made of it — went 
stony-broke and left my father without a sixpence; 
that is why mother didn’t want me to go into livery. 
The family ’ad been coming down for generations, and 
mother thought that I was born to restore it ; and so I 
was, but not as she thought, by carrying parcels up 
and down the King’s Road.’’ 

Esther looked at William in silent admiration, and, 
feeling that he had secured an appreciative listener, he 


58 


ESTHER WATERS 


continued his monologue regarding the wealth and 
rank his family had formerly held, till a heavy dew 
forced them to their feet. In front of them was the 
moon, and out of the forlorn sky looked down the 
misted valleys ; the crests of the hills were still touched 
with light, and lights flew from coast town to coast 
town, weaving a luminous garland. 

The sheep had been folded, and seeing them lying in 
the greyness of this hill-side, and beyond them the 
massive moonlit landscape and the vague sea, Esther 
suddenly became aware, as she had never done before, 
of the exceeding beauty of the world. Looking up in 
William’s face, she said — 

‘ ‘ Oh, how beautiful ! ’ ’ 

As they descended the drove-way their feet raised 
the chalk, and William said — 

“This is bad for Silver Braid; we shall want some 
more rain in a day or two. . . . Let’s come for^a 

walk round the farm,’’ he said suddenly. “The farm 
belongs to the Gaffer, but he’s let the Lodge to a 
young fellow called Johnson. He’s the chap that 
Peggy used to go after — there was awful rows about 
that, and worse when he forestalled the Gaffer about 
Egmont.’’ 

The conversation wandered agreeably, and they 
became more conscious of each other. He told her all 
he knew about the chap who had jilted Miss Mary, and 
the various burlesque actresses at the Shoreham Gar- 
dens who had captivated Ginger’s susceptible iieart. 
While listening she suddenly became aware that she 
had never been so happy before. Now all she had 
endured seemed accidental; she felt that she had 
entered into the permanent; and in the midst of vague 


ESTHER WATERS 


59 


but intense sensations William showed her the pigeon- 
house with all the blue birds dozing on the tiles, a 
white one here and there. They visited the work- 
shop, the forge, and the old cottages where the bailiff 
and the shepherd lived ; and all this inanimate nature 
— the most insignificant objects — seemed inspired, 
seemed like symbols of her emotion. 

They left the farm and wandered on the high road 
until a stile leading to a cornfield beguiled and then 
delayed their steps. 

The silence of the moonlight was clear and 
immense; and they listened to the trilling of the 
nightingale in the copse hard by. First they sought to 
discover the brown bird in the branches of the poor 
hedge, and then the reason of the extraordinary emo- 
tion in their hearts. It seemed that all life was beat- 
ing in that moment, and they were as it were inflamed 
to reach out their hands to life and to grasp it together. 
Even William noticed that. And the moon shone on 
the mist that had gathered on the long marsh lands 
of the foreshore. Beyond the trees the land 
wavered out into down land, the river gleamed, and 
intensely. 

This moment was all the poetry of their lives. The 
striking of a match to light his pipe, which had gone 
out, put the music to flight, and all along the white 
road he continued his monologue, interrupted only by 
the necessity of puffing at his pipe. 

“Mother says that if I had twopence worth of pride 
in me I wouldn’t have consented to put on the livery; 
but what I says to mother is, ‘What’s the use of having 
pride if you haven’t money?’ I tells her that I am 
rotten with pride, but my pride is to make money. I 


6o 


ESTHER WATERS 


can’t see that the man what is willing to remain poor 
all his life has any pride at all. . . . But, Lord ! I 

have argued with mother till I’m sick; she can see 
nothing further than the livery; that’s what women 
are — they are that short-sighted. ... A lot of 
good it would have done me to have carried parcels all 
my life, and when I could do four mile an hour no more, 
to be turned out to die in the ditch and be buried by the 
parish. ‘Not good enough,’ says I. ‘If that’s your 
pride, mother, you may put it in your pipe and smoke it, 
and as you ’aven’t got a pipe, perhaps behind the oven 
will do as well,’ — that’s what I said to her. I saw well 
enough there was nothing for me but service, and I 
means to stop here until I can get on three or four 
good things and then retire into a nice comfortable 
public-house and do my own betting. ’ ’ 

“You would give up betting then?’’ 

“I’d give up backing ’orses, if you mean that. . . 

What I should like would be to get on to a dozen good 
things at long prices — half-a-dozen like Silver Braid 
would do it. For a thousand or fifteen hundred 
pouujds I could have the ‘Red Lion,’ and just inside my 
own bar I could do a hundred-pound book on all the 
big races. ’ ’ 

Esther listened, hearing interminable references to 
jockeys, publicans, weights, odds, and the certainty, if 
he had the “Red Lion,’’ of being able to get all Joe 
Walker’s betting business away from him. Allusions 
to the police, and the care that must be taken not to 
bet with anyone who has not been properly introduced, 
frightened her ; but her fears died in the sensation of 
his arm about her waist, and the music that the strik- 
ing of a match had put to flight had begun again in 


ESTHER WATERS 


6i 


the next plantation, and it began again in their hearts. 
But if he were going to marry Sarah! The idea 
amused him ; he laughed loudly, and they walked up 
the avenue, his face bent over hers. 


VII. 


The Barfield calculation was that they had a stone in 
hand. Bayleaf, Mr. Leopold argued, would be backed 
to win a million of money if he were handicapped in 
the race at seven stone; and Silver Braid, who had 
been tried again with Bayleaf, and with the same re- 
sult as before, had been let off with only six stone. 

More rain had fallen, the hay-crop had been irre- 
trievably ruined, the prospects of the wheat harvest 
were jeopardized, but what did a few bushels of wheat 
matter? Another pound of muscle in those superb 
hind-quarters was worth all the corn that could be 
grown between here and Henfield. Let the rain come 
dowm, let every ear of wheat be destroyed, so long as 
those delicate fore-legs remained sound. These were 
the ethics that obtained at Woodview, and within the 
last few days showed signs of adoption by the little 
town and not a few of the farmers, grown tired of see- 
ing their crops rotting on the hill-sides. The fever of 
the gamble was in eruption, breaking out in unex- 
pected places — the station-master, the porters, the 
flymen, all had their bit on, and notwithstanding the 
enormous favouritism of two other horses in the race— . 
Prisoner and Stoke Newington — Silver Braid had 
advanced considerably in the betting. Reports of 
trials won had reached Brighton, and not more than 
five-and-twenty to one could now be obtained. 

The discovery that the Demon had gone up several 
62 


ESTHER WATERS 


63 


pounds in weight had introduced the necessary alloy 
into the mintage of their happiness; the most real 
consternation prevailed, and the strictest investigation 
was made as to when and how he had obtained the 
quantities of food required to produce such a mass of 
adipose tissue. Then the Gaifer had the boy upstairs 
and administered to him a huge dose of salts, seeing 
him swallow every drop ; and when the effects of the 
medicine had worn off he was sent for a walk to 
Portslade in two large overcoats, and was accompanied 
by William, whose long legs led the way so effectively. 
On his return a couple of nice feather beds were 
ready, and Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles themselves 
laid him between them, and when they noticed that he 
was beginning to cease to perspire Mr. Leopold made 
him a nice cup of hot tea. 

“That’s the way the Gaffer used to get the flesh off 
in the old days when he rode the winner at Liver- 
pool. ’ ’ 

“It’s the Demon’s own fault,’’ said Mr. Swindles; 
“if he hadn’t been so greedy he wouldn’t have had to 
sweat, and we should ’ave been spared a deal of bother 
and anxiety.’’ 

“Greedy!’’ murmured the little boy, in whom the 
warm tea had induced a new perspiration; “I haven’t 
had what you might call a dinner for the last three 
months. I think I’ll chuck the whole thing.’’ 

“Not until this race is over,’’ said Mr. Swindles. 
“Supposing I was to pass the warming-pan down 
these ’ere sheets. What do you say, Mr. Leopold? 
They are beginning to feel a bit cold. ’ ’ 

“Cold! I ’ope you’ll never go to a ’otter place. 
For God’s sake, Mr. Leopold, don’t let him come near 


64 


ESTHER WATERS 


me with the warming-pan, or else hell melt the little 
flesh that’s left off me.” 

“You 'ad better not make such a fuss,” said Mr. 
Leopold; “if you don’t do what you are told, you’ll 
have to take salts again and go for another walk with 
William.” 

“If we don’t warmup them sheets ’e’ll dry up,” said 
Mr. Swindles. 

“No, I won’t; I’m teeming.” 

“Be a good boy, and you shall have a nice cut of 
mutton when you get up, ’ ’ said Mr. Leopold. 

‘ ‘ How much ? Two slices ? ’ ’ 

“Well, you see, we can’t promise; it all depends on 
how much has come off, and ’aving once got it hoff, we 
don’t want to put it on again. ” 

“I never did ’ear such rot,” said Swindles. “In my 
time a boy’s feelings weren’t considered — one did what 
one considered good for them.” 

Mr. Leopold strove to engage the Demon’s attention 
with compliments regarding his horsemanship in the 
City and Sub. while Mr. Swindles raised the bed- 
clothes. 

“Oh, Mr. Swindles, you are burning me.” 

“For ’eaven’s sake don’t let him start out from 
under the bed like that! Can’t yer ’old him? Burn- 
ing you ! I never even touched you with it ; it was the 
sheet that you felt. ’ ’ 

“Then the sheet is as ’ot as the bloody fire. Will 
yer leave off?” 

“What! a Demon like you afraid of a little touch of 
’eat; wouldn’t ’ave believed it unless I ’ad ’eard it 
with my own ears,” said Mr. Leopold. “Come, now, 
do yer want to ride the crack at Goodwood or do yer 


hSTUBR WATERS 65 

not? If you do, remain quiet, and let us finish taking 
off the last couple of pounds.” 

“It is the last couple of pounds that takes it out of 
one; the first lot comes off jest like butter,” said the 
boy, rolling out of the way of the pan. “I know what 
it will be ; I shall be so weak that I shall just ride a 
stinking bad race.” 

Mr. Leopold and Mr. Swindles exchanged glances. 
It Was clear they thought that there was something in 
the last words of the fainting Demon, and the pan was 
withdrawn. But when the boy was got into the scale 
again it was found that he was not yet nearly the 
right weight, and the Gaffer ordered another effort to 
be made. The Demon pleaded that his feet were 
sore, but he was sent off to Portslade in charge of the 
redoubtable William. 

And as the last pounds came off the Demon’s little 
carcass Mr. Leopold’s face resumed a more tranquil 
expression. It began to be whispered that instead of 
hedging any part of his money he would stand it all 
out, and one day a market gardener brought up word 
that he had seen Mr. Leopold going into Brighton. 

“Old Watkins isn’t good enough for him, that’s 
about it. If Silver Braid wins, Woodview will see 
very little more of Mr. Leopold. He’ll be for buying 
one of them big houses on the sea road and keeping his 
own trap.” 


VIII. 


The great day was now fast approaching, and the 
Gaffer had promised to drive his folk in a drag to 
Goodwood. No more rain was required, the colt’s legs 
remained sound, and three days of sunshine would 
make all the difference in their sum of happiness. In 
the kitchen Mrs. Latch and Esther had been busy for 
some time with chickens and pies and jellies, and in 
the passage there were cases packed with fruit and 
wine. The dressmaker had come from Worthing, and 
for several days the young ladies had not left her. 
And one fine morning, very early — about eight o’clock 
— the wheelers were backed into the drag that had 
come from Brighton, and the yard resounded with the 
blaring of the horn. Ginger was practising under his 
sister’s window. 

“You’ll be late! You’ll be late!’’ 

With the exception of two young gentlemen, who 
had come at the invitation of the young ladies, it was 
quite a family party. Miss Mary sat beside her father 
on the box, and looked very charming in white and 
blue. Peggy’s black hair seemed blacker than ever 
under a white silk parasol, which she waved negli- 
gently above her as she stood up calling and talking 
to everyone until the Gaffer told her angrily to sit 
down, as he was going to start. Then William and 
the coachman let go the leaders’ heads, and running 
side by side swung themselves into their seats. At the 

66 


ESTHER WATERS 


67 


same moment a glimpse was caught of Mr. Leopold’s 
sallow profile amid the boxes and the mackintoshes 
that filled the inside of the coach. 

“Oh, William did look that handsome in those beau- 
tiful new clothes! . . . Everyone said so — Sarah 

and Margaret and Miss Grover. I’m sorry you did not 
come out to see him. ” 

Mrs. Latch made no answer, and Esther remem- 
bered how she hated her son to wear livery, and 
thought that she had perhaps made a mistake in say- 
ing that Mrs. Latch should have come out to see him. 
“Perhaps this will make her dislike me again,” 
thought the girl. Mrs. Latch moved about rapidly, 
and she opened and closed the oven ; then, raising her 
eyes to the window and seeing that the other women 
were still standing in the yard and safely out of hear- 
ing, she said — 

“Do you think that he has bet much on this race?’’ 

“Oh, how should I know, Mrs. Latch? . . . But 

the horse is certain to win. ’ ’ 

“Certain to win! I have heard that tale before; 
they are always certain to win. So they have won you 
round to their way of thinking, have they?’’ said Mrs. 
Latch, straightening her back. 

‘ ‘ I know very well indeed that it is not right to bet ; 
but what can I do, a poor girl like me? If it hadn’t 
been for William I never would have taken a number 
in that sweepstakes. ’ ’ 

“Do you like him very much, then?” 

‘ ‘ He has been very kind to me — he was kind when — ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know, when I was unkind. I was unkind to 
you when you first came. You don’t know all. I was 
much troubled at that time, and somehow I did not — . 


68 


ESTHER WATERS 


But there is no ill-feeling? . . . I’ll make it up 

to you — ril teach you how to be a cook.” 

“Oh, Mrs. Latch, I am sure ” 

“Never mind that. When you went out to walk 
with him the other night, did he tell you that he had 
many bets on the race?” 

“He talked about the race, like everyone else, but 
he did not tell me what bets he had on. ’ ’ 

“No, they never do do that. . . . But you’ll not 

tell him that I asked you?” 

“No, Mrs. Latch, I promise.” 

“It would do no good, he’d only be angry; it would 
only set him against me. I am afraid that nothing 
will stop him now. Once they get a taste for it it is 
like drink. I wish he was married, that might get him 
out of it. Some woman who would have an influence 
over him, some strong-minded woman. I thought 

once that you were strong-minded ” 

At that moment Sarah and Grover entered the 
kitchen talking loudly. They asked Mrs. Latch how 
soon they could have dinner — the sooner the better, 
for the Saint had told them that they were free to go 
out for the day. They were to try to be back before 
eight, that was all. Ah ! the Saint was a first-rate sort. 
She had said that she did not want anyone to attend on 
her. She would get herself a bit of lunch in the dining- 
room. Mrs. Latch allowed Esther to hurry on the 
dinner, and by one o’clock they had all finished. 
Sarah and Margaret were going into Brighton to do 
some shopping, Grover was going to Worthing to 
spend the afternoon with the wife of one of the guards 
of the Brighton and South Coast Railway. Mrs. 
Latch went upstairs to lie down. So it grew lonelier 


ESTHER WATERS 


69 


and lonelier in the kitchen. Esther’s sewing fell out 
of her hands, and she wondered what she should do. 
She thought that she might go down to the beach, and 
soon after she put on her hat and stood thinking, 
remembering that she had not been by the sea, that 
she had not seen the sea since she was a little girl. 
But she remembered the tall ships that came into the 
harbour, sail falling over sail, and the tall ships that 
floated out of the harbour, sail rising over sail, catch- 
ing the breeze as they went aloft — she remembered 
them. 

A suspension bridge, ornamented with straight- 
tailed lions, took her over the weedy river, and having 
crossed some pieces of rough grass, she climbed the 
shingle bank. The heat rippled the blue air, and the 
sea, like an exhausted caged beast, licked the shingle. 
Sea-poppies bloomed under the wheels of a decaying 
bathing-machine, and Esther wondered. But the sea 
here was lonely as a prison, and, seeing the treeless 
coast with its chain of towns, her thoughts suddenly 
reverted to William. She wished he were with her, 
and for pleasant contemplation she thought of that 
happy evening when she saw him coming through the 
hunting gate, when, his arm about her, William had 
explained that if the horse won she would take seven 
shillings out of the sweepstakes. She knew now that 
William did not care about Sarah ; and that he cared 
for her had given a sudden and unexpected meaning 
to her existence. She lay on the shingle, her day- 
dream becoming softer and more delicate as it rounded 
into summer sleep. 

And when the light awoke her she saw flights of 
white clouds — white up above, rose-coloured as they 


70 


ESTHER WATERS 


approached the west; and when she turned, a tall, 
melancholy woman. 

“Good evening, Mrs. Randal,” said Esther, glad to 
find someone to speak to. “I’ve been asleep.” 

“Good evening. Miss. You’re from Wood view, I 
think?” 

“Yes, I’m the kitchen-maid. They’ve gone to the 
races; there was nothing to do, so I came down here.” 

Mrs. Randal’s lips moved as if she were going to say 
something. But she did not speak. Soon after she 
rose to her feet. “I think that it must be getting near 
tea-time; I must be going. You might come in and 
have a cup of tea with me, if you’re not in a hurry 
back to Woodview. ” 

Esther was surprised at so much condescension, and 
in silence the two women crossed the meadows that lay 
between the shingle bank and the river. Trains were 
passing all the while, scattering, it seemed, in their 
noisy passage over the spider-legged bridge, the 
news from Goodwood. The news seemed to be borne 
along shore in the dust, and, as if troubled by presci- 
ence of the news, Mrs. Randal said, as she unlocked 
the cottage door — 

“It is all over now. The people in those trains 
know well enough which has won. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I suppose they know, and somehow I feel as if 
I knew too. I feel as if Silver Braid had won. ” 

Mrs. Randal’s home was gaunt as herself. Every- 
thing looked as if it had been scraped, and the spare 
furniture expressed a meagre, lonely life. She 
dropped a plate as she laid the table, and stood 
pathetically looking at the pieces. When Esther asked 
for a teaspoon she gave way utterly. 


ESTHER WATERS 


n 

“I haven’t one to give yon; I had forgotten that 
they were gone. I should have remembered and not 
asked you to tea. ’ ’ 

“It don’t matter, Mrs. Randal; I can stir up my tea 
with anything — a knitting-needle will do very well — ” 

“I should have remembered and not asked you back 
to tea ; but I was so miserable, and it is so lonely sit- 
ting in this house, that I could stand it no longer. . 
Talking to you saved me from thinking, and I did not 
want to think until this race was over. If Silver Braid 
is beaten we are ruined. Indeed, I don’t know what 
will become of us. For fifteen years I have borne 
up ; I have lived on little at the best of times, and very 
often have gone without ; but that is nothing compared 
to the anxiety — to see him come in with a white face, 
to see him drop into a chair and hear him say, ‘Beaten 
a head on the post,’ or, ‘Broke down, otherwise he 
would have won in a canter. ’ I have always tried to 
be a good wife and tried to console him, and to do the 
best when he said, ‘I have lost half a year’s wages, I 
don’t know how we shall pull through. ’ I have borne 
with ten thousand times more than I can tell you. 
The sufferings of a gambler’s wife cannot be told. 
Tell me, what do you think my feelings must have 
been when one night I heard him calling me out of my 
sleep, when I heard him say, ‘I can’t die, Annie, with- 
out bidding you good-bye. I can only hope that you 
will be able to pull through, and I know that the 
Gaffer will do all he can for you, but he has been hit 
awful hard too. You mustn’t think too badly of me, 
Annie, but I have had such a bad time that I couldn’t 
put up with it any longer, and I thought the best thing 
I could do would be to go. ’ That’s just how he talked 


72 


ESTHER WATERS 


— nice words to hear your husband speak in your ear 
through the darkness! There was no time to send for 
the doctor, so I jumped out of bed, put the kettle on, 
and made him drink glass after glass of salt and 
water. At last he brought up the laudanum. ’ ’ 

Esther listened to the melancholy woman, and 
remembered the little man whom she saw every day 
so orderly, so precise, so sedate, so methodical, so 
unemotional, into whose life she thought no faintest 
emotion had ever entered — and this was the truth. 

“So long as I only had myself to think of I didn’t 
mind; but now there are the children growing up. 
He should think of them. Heaven only knows what 
will become of them. . . . John is as kind a hus- 

band as ever was if it weren’t for that one fault; but 
he cannot resist having something on any more than a 
drunkard can resist the bar-room.” 

“Winner, winner, winner of the Stevrards’ Cup!” 

The women started to their feet. When they got 
into the street the boy was far away ; besides, neither 
had a penny to pay for the paper, and they wandered 
about the town hearing and seeing nothing, so nervous 
were they. At last Esther proposed to ask at the 
“Red Lion” who had won. Mrs. Randal begged her 
to refrain, urging that she was unable to bear the tid- 
ings should it be evil. 

“Silver Braid,” the barman answered. The girl 
rushed through the doors. “It Is all right, it is all 
right; he has won!” 

Soon after the little children in the lane were calling 
forth “Silver Braid won!” And overcome by the 
excitement Esther walked along the sea-road to meet 
the drag. She walked on and on until the sound of 


ESTHER WATERS 


73 


the hom came through the crimson evening and she 
saw the leaders trotting in a cloud of dust. Ginger 
was driving, and he shouted to her, “He won!” The 
Gaffer waved the horn and shouted, “He won!” 
Peggy waved her broken parasol and shouted, “He 
won!” Esther looked at William. He leaned over 
the back seat and shouted, “He won!” She had for- 
gotten all about late dinner. What would Mrs. Latch 
say? On such a day as this she would say nothing. 


IX. 


Nearly everything came down untouched. Eating 
and drinking had been in progress almost all day on 
the course, and Esther had finished washing up before 
nine, and had laid the cloth in the servants’ hall for 
supper. But if little was eaten upstairs, plenty was 
eaten downstairs ; the mutton was finished in a trice, 
and Mrs. Latch had to fetch from the larder what 
remained of a beefsteak pudding. Even then they 
were not satisfied, and fine inroads were made into a 
new piece of cheese. Beer, according to orders, was 
served without limit, and four bottles of port were sent 
down so that the health of the horse might be ade- 
quately drunk. 

While assuaging their hunger the men had 
exchanged many allusive remarks regarding the 
Demon’s bad ending, how nearly he had thrown the 
race away; and the meal being now over, and there 
being nothing to do but to sit and talk, Mr. Leopold, 
encouraged by William, entered on an elaborate and 
technical account of the race. The women listened, 
playing with a rind of cheese, glancing at the cheese 
itself, wondering if they could manage another slice, 
and the men sipping their port wine, puffing at their 
pipes, William listening most avidly of all, enjoying 
each sporting term, and ingeniously reminding Mr. 
Leopold of some detail whenever he seemed disposed 
to shorten his narrative. The criticism of the 


74 


ESTHER WATERS 


75 


Demon’s horsemanship took a long while, for by a 
variety of suggestive remarks William led Mr. Leo- 
pold into reminiscences of the skill of certain famous 
jockeys in the first half of the century. These digres- 
sions wearied Sarah and Grover, and their thoughts 
wandered to the dresses that had been worn that day, 
and the lady’s-maid remembered she would hear all 
that interested her that night in the young ladies’ 
rooms. At last, losing all patience, Sarah declared 
that she didn’t care what Chifney had said when he 
just managed to squeeze his horse’s head in front in 
the last dozen yards, she wanted to know what the 
Demon had done to so nearly lose the race — had he 
mistaken the winning-post and pulled up? William 
looked at her contemptuously, and would have 
answered rudely, but at that moment Mr. Leopold 
began to tell the last instructions that the Gaifer had 
given the Demon. The orders were that the Demon 
should go right up to the leaders before they reached 
the half-mile, and remain there. Of course, if he found 
that he was a stone or more in hand, as the Gaffer 
expected, he might come away pretty well as he liked, 
for the greatest danger was that the horse might get 
shut out or might show temper and turn it up. 

“Well,” said Mr. Leopold, “there were two false 
starts, and Silver Braid must have galloped a couple 
of ’undred yards afore the Demon could stop him. 
There wasn’t twopence-half penny worth of strength in 
him — pulling off those three or four pounds pretty well 
finished him. He’ll never be able to ride that weight 
again. ... He said afore starting that he felt 
weak ; you took him along too smartly from Portslade 
the last time you went there.” 


76 


ESTHER WATERS 


“When he went by himself he’d stop playing mar- 
bles with the boys round the South wick public-house. ’ ’ 

“If there had been another false start I think it 
would have been all up with us. The Gaffer w^s 
quite pale, and he stood there not taking his glasses 
from his eyes. There were over thirty of them, so you 
can imagine how hard it was to get them into line. 
However, at the third attempt they were got straight 
and away they came, a black line stretching right 
across the course. Presently the black cap and jacket 
came to the front, and not very long after a murmur 
went round, ‘Silver Braid wins.’ Never saw any- 
thing like it in all my life. He was three lengths 
a’ead, and the others were pulling off. ‘Damn the 
boy; he’ll win by twenty lengths,’ said the Gaffer, 
without removing his glasses. But when within a few 
yards of the stand ’’ 

At that moment the bell rang. Mr. Leopold said, 
“There, they are wanting their tea; I must go and 
get it.’’ 

“Drat their tea,” said Margaret; “they can wait. 
Finish up; tell us how he won. ” 

Mr. Leopold looked round, and seeing every eye 
fixed on him he considered how much remained of the 
story, and with quickened speech continued, “Well, 
approaching the stand, I noticed that Silver Braid was 
not going quite so fast, and at the very instant the 
Demon looked over his shoulder, and seeing he was 
losing ground he took up the whip. But the moment 
he struck him the horse swerved right across the 
course, right under the stand, running like a rat from 
underneath the whip. The Demon caught him one 
across the nose with his left hand, but seeing what 


ESTHER WATERS 


77 


was ’appening, the Tinman, who was on Bullfinch, sat 
down and began riding. I felt as if there was a lump 
of ice down my back, ” and Mr. Leopold lowered his 
voice, and his face became grave as he recalled that 
perilous moment. “I thought it was all over,” he 
said, “and the Gaffer thought the same; I never saw a 
man go so deadly pale. It was all the work of a 
moment, but that moment was more than a year — at 
least, so it seemed to me. Well, about half-way up 
the rails the Tinman got level with the Demon. It 
was ten to one that Silver Braid would turn it up, or 
that the boy wouldn’t ’ave the strength to ride out so 
close a finish as it was bound to be. I thought then 
of the way you used to take him along from Portslade, 
and I’d have given something to’ve put a pound or 
two of flesh into his thighs and arms. The Tinman was 
riding splendid, getting every ounce and something 
more out of Bullfinch. The Demon, too weak to do 
much, was sitting nearly quite still. It looked as if it 
was all up with us, but somehow Silver Braid took to 
galloping of his own accord, and ’aving such a mighty 
lot in ’an^ he won on the post by a ’ead — a short ’ead. 

. . . I never felt that queer in my life, and the 

Gaffer was no better; but I said to him, just afore the 
numbers went up, ‘It is all right, sir, he’s just done 
it,’ and when the right number went up I thought 
everything was on the dance, going for swim like. 
By golly, it was a near thing!” At the end of a long 
silence Mr. Leopold said, shaking himself out of his 
thoughts, “Now I must go and get their tea.” 

Esther sat at the end of the table ; her cheek leaned 
on her hand. By turning her eyes she could see Wil- 
liam. Sarah noticed one of these stealthy backward 


78 


ESTHER WATERS 


glances and a look of anger crossed her face, and call- 
ing to William she asked him when the sweepstakes 
money would be divided. The question startled Wil- 
liam from a reverie of small bets, and he answered 
that there was no reason why the sweepstakes money 
should not be divided at once. 

“There was twelve. That’s right, isn’t it? — Sarah, 
Margaret, Esther, Miss Grover, Mr. Leopold, myself, 
the four boys, and Swindles and Wall. . . . Well, 

it was agreed that seven should go to the first, three to 
the second, and two to the third. No one got the 
third ’orse, so I suppose the two shillings that would 
have gone to him ’ad better be given to the first.” 

“Given to the first! Why, that’s Esther! Why 
should she get it? . . . What do you mean? No 

third! Wasn’t Soap-bubble third?” 

“Yes, Soap-bubble was third right enough, but he 
wasn’t in the sweep.” 

“And why wasn’t he?” 

“Because he wasn’t among the eleven first favour- 
ites. We took them as they were quoted in the bet- 
ting list published in the Sportsma7i.'' 

“How was it, then, that you put in Silver Braid?” 

“Yer needn’t get so angry, Sarah, no one’s cheat- 
ing; it is all above board. If you don’t believe us, 
you’d better accuse us straight out.” 

“What I want to know is, why Silver Braid was 
included? — he wasn’t among the eleven first favourites. ’ ’ 

“Oh, don’t be so stupid, Sarah; you know that we 
agreed to make an exception in favour of our own 
•orse — a nice sweep it would ’ave been if we ’adn’t 
included Silver Braid. ’ ’ 

“And suppose,” she exclaimed, tightening her 


ESTHER WATERS 


79 


brows, “that Soap-bubble had won, what would have 
become of our money?” 

“It would have been returned — everyone would 
have got his shilling back. ’ ’ 

“And now I am to get three shillings, and that little 
Methodist or Plymouth Brethren there, whatever you 
like to call her, is to get nine ! ’ ’ said Sarah, with a light 
of inspiration flashing through her beer-clouded mind. 
“Why should the two shillings that would have gone 
to Soap-bubble, if anyone ’ad drawn ’im, go to the first 
’orse rather than to the second?” 

William hesitated, unable for the moment to give a 
good reason why the extra two shillings should be 
given to Silver Braid; and Sarah, perceiving her 
advantage, deliberately accused him of wishing to 
favour Esther. 

“Don’t we know that you went out to walk with her, 
and that you remained out till nearly eleven at night. 
That’s why you want all the money to go to her. You 
don’t take us for a lot of fools, do you? Never in any 
place I ever was in before would such a thing be 
allowed — the footman going out with the kitchen- 
maid, and one of the Dissenting lot.” 

“I am not going to have my religion insulted! How 
dare you?” And Esther started up from her place; but 
William was too quick for her. He grasped her arm. 

“Never mind what Sarah says.” 

“Never mind what I says! ... A thing like 
that, who never was in a situation before; no doubt 
taken out of some ’ouse. Rescue work, I think they 
call it ” 

“She shan’t insult me — no, she shan’t!” said Esther, 
tremulous with passion. 


8o 


ESTHER WATERS 


“A nice sort of person to insnlt!” said Sarah, her 
arms akimbo. 

“Now look you here, Sarah Tucker,” said Mrs. 
Latch, starting from her seat, “I’m not going to see 
that girl aggravated, so that she may do what she 
shouldn’t do, and give you an opportunity of going to 
the missis with tales about her. Come away, Esther, 
come with me. Let them go on betting if they will ; I 
never saw no good come of it. ’ ’ 

“That’s all very fine, mother; but it must be settled, 
and we have to divide the money. ’ ’ 

“I don’t want your money,” said Esther, sullenly; 
“I wouldn’t take it.” 

“What blooming nonsense! You must take your 
money. Ah, here’s Mr. Leopold! he’ll decide it.” 

Mr. Leopold said at once that the money that under 
other circumstances would have gone to the third 
horse must be divided between the first and second ; 
but Sarah refused to accept this decision. Finally, it 
was proposed that the matter should be referred to the 
editor of the Sportsman; and as Sarah still remained 
deaf to argument, William offered her choice between 
the Sportsman and the Sporting Life. 

“Look here,” said William, getting between the 
women; “this evening isn’t one for fighting; we have 
all won our little bit, and ought to be thankful. The 
only difference between you is two shillings, that were 
to have gone to the third horse if anyone had drawn 
him. Mr. Leopold says it ought to be divided ; you, 
Sarah, won’t accept his decision. We have offered to 
write to the Sportsman., and Esther has offered to give 
up her claim. Now, in the name of God, tell us what 
do you want?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


8i 


She raised some wholly irrelevant issue, and after a 
protracted argument with William, largely composed 
of insulting remarks, she declared that she wasn’t 
going to take the two shillings, nor yet one of them f 
let them give her the three she had won — that was all 
she wanted. William looked at her, shrugged his 
shoulders, and, after declaring that it was his convic- 
tion that women wasn’t intended to have nothing to do 
with horse-racing, he took up his pipe and tobacco- 
pouch. 

“Good-night, ladies, I have had enough of you for 
to-night ; I am going to finish my smoke in the pantry. 
Don’t scratch all your ’air out; leave enough for me to 
put into a locket. ’’ 

When the pantry door was shut, and the men had 
smoked some moments in silence, William said — 

‘ ‘ Do you think he has any chance of winning the 
Chesterfield Cup?’’ 

“He’ll win in a canter if he’ll only run straight. If 
I was the Gaffer I think I’d put up a bigger boy. 
He’ll ’ave to carry a seven -pound penalty, and Johnnie 
Scott could ride that weight.” 

The likelihood that a horse will bolt with one jockey 
and run straight with another was argued passion- 
ately, and illustrated with interesting reminiscences 
drawn from that remote past when Mr. Leopold was 
the Gaffer’s private servant — before either of them had 
married — when life was composed entirely of horse- 
racing and prize-fighting. But cutting short his tale 
of how he had met one day the Birmingham Chicken 
in a booth, and, not knowing who he was, had offered 
to fight him, Mr. Leopold confessed he did not know 
how to act — he had a bet of fifty pounds to ten shillings 


82 


ESTHER WATERS 


for the double event; should he stand it out or lay 
some of it off? William thrilled with admiration. 
What a ’ead, and who’d think it? that little ’ead, 
hardly bigger than a cocoanut ! What a brain there 
was inside ! Fifty pounds to ten shillings ; should he 
stand it out or hedge some of it? Who could tell 
better than Mr. Leopold? It would, of course, be a 
pity to break into the fifty. What did ten shillings 
matter? Mr. Leopold was a big enough man to stand 
the racket of it even if it didn’t come back. William 
felt very proud of being consulted, for Mr. Leopold 
had never before been known to let anyone know what 
he had on a race. 

Next day they walked into Shoreham together. 
The bar of the “Red Lion” was full of people. Above 
the thronging crowd the voice of the barman and the 
customers were heard calling, “Two glasses of Bur- 
ton, glass of bitter, three of whisky cold.” There 
were railway porters, sailors, boatmen, shop-boys, and 
market gardeners. They had all won something, and 
had come for their winnings." 

Old Watkins, ah elderly man with white whiskers 
and a curving stomach, had just run in to wet his 
whistle. He walked back to his office with Mr. Leo- 
pold and William, a little corner shelved out of some 
out-houses, into which you could walk from the 
street. 

“Talk of favourites!” he said; “I’d sooner pay over 
the three first favourites than this one — thirty, twenty 
to one starting price, and the whole town on to him ; it’s 
enough to break any man. . . . Now, my 
men, what is it?” he said, turning to the railway 
porters. 


ESTHER WATERS 83 

“Just the trifle me and my mates ’av won over that 
’ere ’orse.’’ 

“What was it?’’ 

“A shilling at five-and-twenty to one.” 

“Look it out, Joey. Is it all right?” 

“Yes, sir; yes, sir,” said the clerk. 

And old Watkins slid his hand into his breeches 
pocket, and it came forth filled with gold and silver. 

“Come, come, mates, we are bound to ’ave a bet on 
him for the Chesterfield — we can afford it now ; what 
say yer, a shilling each?” 

“Done for a shilling each,” said the under-porter; 
“finest ’orse in training. . . . What price, Musser 

Watkins?” 

“Ten to one.” 

“Right, ’ere’s my bob.” 

The other porters gave their shillings; Watkins slid 
them back into his pocket, and called to Joey to book 
the bet. 

“And, now, what is yours, Mr. Latch?” 

William stated the various items. He had had a bet 
of ten shillings to one on one race and had lost ; he had 
had half-a-crown on another and had lost ; in a word, 
three-and- sixpence had to be subtracted from his win- 
nings on Silver Braid. These amounted to more than 
five pounds. William’s face flushed with pleasure, and 
the world seemed to be his when he slipped four 
sovereigns and a handful of silver into his waistcoat 
pocket. Should he put a sovereign of his winnings on 
Silver jBraid for the Chesterfield? Half-a-sovereign 
was enough! . . . The danger of risking a sov- 

ereign — a whole sovereign — frightened him. 

“Now, Mr. Latch,” said old Watkins, “if you want 


84 


ESTHER WATERS 


to back anything, make up your mind ; there are a good 
many besides yourself who have business with me.” 

William hesitated, and then said he’d take ten half- 
sovereigns to one against Silver Braid. 

“Ten half-sovereigns to one?” said old Watkins. 

William murmured “Yes,” and Joey booked the bet. 

Mr. Leopold’s business demanded more considera- 
tion. The fat betting man and the scarecrow little 
butler walked aside and talked, both apparently 
indifferent to the impatience of a number of small cus- 
tomers; sometimes Joey called in his shrill cracked 
voice if he might lay ten half-crowns to one, or five 
shillings to one, as the case might be. Watkins would 
then raise his eyes from Mr. Leopold’s face and nod or 
shake his head, or perhaps would sign with his fingers 
what odds he was prepared to lay. With no one else 
would Watkins talk so lengthily, showing so much 
deference. Mr. Leopold had the knack of investing 
all he did with an air of mystery, and the deepest 
interest was evinced in this conversation. At last, as 
if dismissing matters of first importance, the two men 
approached William, and he heard Watkins pressing 
Mr. Leopold to lay off some of that fifty pounds. 

“I’ll take twelve to one — twenty-four pounds to two. 
Shall I book it?” 

Mr. Leopold shook his head, and, smiling enigmatic- 
ally, said he must be getting back. William was much 
impressed, and congratulated himself on his courage 
in taking the ten half-sovereigns to one. Mr. Leopold 
knew a thing or two ; he had been talking to the Gaffer 
that morning, and if it hadn’t been all right he would 
have laid off some of the money. 

Next day one of the Gaffer’s two-year-olds won a 


ESTHER WATERS S5 

race, and the day after Silver Braid won the Chester- ■ 
field Cup. 

The second victory of Silver Braid nearly ruined old 
Watkins. He declared that he had never been so 
hard hit ; but as he did not ask for time and continued 
to draw notes and gold and silver in handfuls from his 
capacious pockets, his lamentations only served to 
stimulate the happiness of the fortunate backers, and, 
listening to the sweet note of self ringing in their 
hearts, they returned to the public-house to drink the 
health of the horse. 

So the flood of gold continued to roll into the little 
town, decrepit and colourless by its high shingle beach 
and long reaches of muddy river. The dear gold 
jingled merrily in the pockets, quickening the steps, 
lightening the heart, curling lips with smiles, opening 
lips with laughter. The dear gold came falling softly, 
sweetly as rain, soothing the hard lives of working- 
folk. Lives pressed with toil lifted up and began to 
dream again. The dear gold was like an opiate; it 
wiped away memories of hardship and sorrow, it 
showed life in a lighter and merrier guise, and the folk 
laughed at their fears for the morrow and wondered 
how they could have thought life so hard and relent- 
less. The dear gold was pleasing as a bird on the 
branch, as a flower on the stem ; the tune it sang was 
sweet, the colour it flaunted was bright. 

The trade of former days had never brought the 
excitement and the fortune that this horse’s hoofs had 
done. The dust they had thrown up had fallen a 
happy, golden shower upon Shoreham. In every 
corner and crevice of life the glitter appeared. That 
fine red dress on the builder’s wife, and the feathers 


86 


ESTHER WATERS 


that the girls flaunt at their sweethearts, the loud 
trousers on the young man’s legs, the cigar in his 
mouth — all is Goodwood gold. It glitters in that 
girl’s ears and on this girl’s finger. 

It was said that the town of Shoreham had won two 
thousand pounds on the race; it was said that ‘Mr. 
Leopold had won two hundred; it was said that Wil- 
liam Latch had won fifty; it was said that Wall, the 
coachman, had won five-and-twenty ; it was said that 
the Gaffer had won forty thousand pounds. For ten 
miles around nothing was talked of but the wealth of 
the Barfields, and, drawn like moths to a candle, the 
county came to call; even the most distant and 
reserved left cards, others walked up and down the 
lawn with the Gaffer, listening to his slightest word. 
A golden prosperity shone upon the yellow Italian 
house. Carriages passed under its elm-trees at every 
hour and swept round the evergreen oaks. Rumour 
said that large alterations were going to be made, so 
that larger and grander entertainments might be 
given; an Italian garden was spoken of, balustrades 
and terraces, stables were in course of construction, 
many more race-horses were bought; they arrived 
daily, and the slender creatures, their dark eyes glanc- 
ing out of the sight holes in their cloth hoods, walked 
up from the station followed by an admiring and com- 
menting crowd. Drink and expensive living, dancing 
and singing upstairs and downstairs, and the jollifica- 
tions culminated in a servants’ ball given at the 
Shoreham Gardens. All the Woodview servants, 
excepting Mrs. Latch, were there; likewise all the 
servants from Mr. Northcote’s, and those from Sir 
George Preston’s — two leading county families. A 


f 


ESTHER WATERS 


87 


great number of servants had come from West 
Brighton, and Lancing, and Worthing — altogether 
between two and three hundred. “Evening dress is 
indispensable” was printed on the cards. The but- 
lers, footmen, cooks, ladies ’-maids, house-maids, and 
housekeepers hoped by this notification to keep the 
ball select. But the restriction seemed to condemn 
Esther to play again the part of Cinderella. 


X. 


A group of men turned from the circular buffet 
when Esther entered. Miss Mary had given her a 
white muslin dress, a square-cut bodice with sleeves 
reaching to the elbows, and a blue sash tied round the 
waist. The remarks as she passed were, “A nice, 
pretty girl.” William was waiting, and she went 
away with him on the hop of a vigorous polka. 

Many of the dancers had gone to get cool in the 
gardens, but a few couples had begun to whirl, the 
women borne along by force, the men poising their 
legs into curious geometrical positions. 

Mr. Leopold was very busy dragging men away 
from the circular buffet — they must dance whether 
they knew how or not. “The Gaffer has told me 
partic’lar to see that the ‘gals’ all had partners, and 
just look down that ’ere room ; ’alf of that lot ’aven’t 
been on their legs yet. ’Ere’s a partner for you,” and 
the butler pulled a young gamekeeper towards a young 
girl who had ^ just arrived. She entered slowly, her 
hands clasped across her bosom, her eyes fixed on the 
ground, and the strangeness of the spectacle caused 
Mr. Leopold to pause. It was whispered that she had 
never worn a low dress before, and Grover came to the 
rescue of her modesty with a pocket-handkerchief. 

But it had been found impossible to restrict the ball 
to those who possessed or could obtain an evening 
suit, and plenty of check trousers and red neckties 

88 


ESTHER WATERS 


89 


were hopping about. Among the villagers many a 
touch suggested costume. A young girl had borrowed 
her grandmother’s wedding dress, and a young man 
wore a canary-coloured waistcoat and a blue coast- 
guardsman’s coat of old time. These touches of 
fancy and personal taste divided the villagers from the 
household servants. The butlers seemed on the watch 
for side dishes, and the valets suggested hair brushes 
and hot water. Cooks trailed black silk dresses 
adorned with wide collars, and fastened with gold 
brooches containing portraits of their late husbands; 
and the fine shirt fronts set off with rich pearls, the 
lavender-gloved hands, the delicate faces, expressive 
of ease and leisure, made Ginger’s two friends — young 
Mr. Preston and young Mr. Northcote — noticeable 
among this menial, work-a-day crowd. Ginger loved 
the upper circles, and now he romped the polka 
in the most approved London fashion, his elbows 
advanced like a yacht’s bowsprit, and, his coat-tails 
flying, he dashed through a group of tradespeople 
who were bobbing up and down, hardly advancing 
at all. 

Esther was now being spoken of as the belle of the 
ball, she had danced with young Mr. Preston, and 
seeing her sitting alone Grover called her and asked 
her why she was not dancing. Esther answered sul- 
lenly that she was tired. 

“Come, the next polka, just to show there is no ill- 
feeling.*’ Half a dozen times William repeated his 
demand. At last she said — 

“You’ve spoilt all my pleasure in the dancing.’’ 

“I’m sorry if I’ve done that, Esther. I was jealous, 
that’s all.’’ 


90 


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“Jealous! What was you jealous for? What do it 
matter what people think, so long as I know I haven’t 
done no wrong?’’ 

And in silence they walked into the garden. The 
night was warm, even oppressive, and the moon hung 
like a balloon above the trees, and often the straying 
revellers stopped to consider the markings now so 
plain upon its disc. There were arbours, artificial 
ruins, darkling pathways, and the breathless garden 
was noisy in the illusive light. William showed 
Esther the theatre and explained its purpose. She 
listened, though she did not understand, nor could she 
believe that she was not dreaming when they suddenly 
stood on the borders of a beautiful lake full of the 
shadows of tall trees, and crossed by a wooden bridge 
at the narrowest end. 

“How still the water is; and the stars, they are 
lovely!’’ 

“You should see the gardens about three o’clock on 
Saturday afternoons, when the excursion comes in 
from Brighton. ’ ’ 

They walked on a little further, and Esther said, 
“What’s these places? Ain’t they dark?’’ 

“These are arbours, where we ’as shrimps and tea. 
I’ll take you next Saturday, if you’ll come.” 

A noisy band of young men, followed by three or 
four girls, ran across the bridge. Suddenly they 
stopped to argue on which side the boat was to be 
found. Some chose the left, some the right ; those 
who went to the right sent up a yell of triumph, and 
paddled into the middle of the water. They first 
addressed remarks to their companions, and then they 
admired the moon and stars. A song was demanded. 


ESTHER WATERS 


91 


and at the end of the second verse William threw his 
arm round Esther. 

“Oh, Esther, I do love you.” 

She looked at him, her grey eyes fixed in a long in- 
terrogation. 

“I wonder if that is true. What is there to love in 
me?” 

He squeezed her tightly, and continued his protesta- 
tions. “I do, I do, I do love you, Esther.” 

She did not answer, and they walked slowly on. A 
holly bush threw a black shadow on the gravel path, 
and a moment after the ornamental tin roof of the 
dancing room appeared between the trees. 

Even in their short absence a change had come upon 
the ball. About the circular buffet numbers of men 
called for drink, and talked loudly of horse-racing. 
Many were away at supper, and those that remained 
were amusing themselves in a desultory fashion. A 
tall, lean woman, dressed like Sarah in white muslin, 
wearing amber beads round her neck, was dancing the 
lancers with the Demon, and everyone shook with 
laughter when she whirled the little fellow round or 
took him in her arms and carried him across. Wil- 
liam wanted to dance, but Esther was hungry, and led 
him away to an adjoining building where cold beef, 
chicken, and beer might be had by the strong and 
adventurous. As they struggled through the crowd 
Esther spied three young gentlemen at the other end 
of the room. 

“Now tell me, if they ask me, the young gents yon- 
der, to dance, am I to look them straight in the face 
and say no?” 

William considered a moment, and then he said, “I 


92 


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think you had better dance with them if they asks 
you ; if you refuse, Sarah will say it was I who put you 
up to it.” 

“Let’s have another bottle,” cried Ginger. “Come, 
what do you say, Mr. Thomas?” 

Mr. Thomas coughed, smiled, and said that Mr. 
Arthur wished to see him in the hands of the police. 
However, he promised to drink his share. Two more 
bottles were sent for, and, stimulated by the wine, the 
weights that would probably be assigned to certain 
horses in the autumn handicap were discussed. Wil- 
liam was very proud of being admitted into such com- 
pany, and he listened, a cigar which he did not like 
between his teeth, and a glass of champagne in his 
hand. . . . Suddenly the conversation was inter- 

rupted by the cornet sounding the first phrase of a 
favourite waltz, and the tipsy and the sober hastened 
away. 

Neither Esther nor William knew how to waltz, but 
they tumbled round the ‘room, enjoying themselves 
immensely. In the polka and mazurka they got on 
better ; and there were quadrilles and lancers in which 
the gentlemen joined, and all were gay and pleasant; 
even Sarah’s usually sour face glowed with cordiality 
when they joined hands and raced round the men 
standing in the middle. In the chain they lost them- 
selves as in a labyrinth and found their partners unex- 
pectedly. But the dance of the evening was Sir Roger 
de Coverley, and Esther’s usually sober little brain 
evaporated in the folly of running up the room, then 
turning and running backwards, getting into her place 
as best she could, and then starting again. It always 
appeared to be her turn, and it was so sweet to see her 


ESTHER WATERS 


93 


dear William, and such a strange excitement to run 
forward to meet young Mr. Preston, to curtsey to him, 
and then run away ; and this over and over again. 

“There’s the dawn.” 

Esther looked, and in the whitening doorways she 
saw the little jockey staggering about helplessly 
drunk. The smile died out of her eyes ; she returned 
to her true self, to Mrs. Barfield and the Brethren. 
She felt that all this dancing, drinking, and kissing in 
the arbours was wicked. But Miss Mary had sent for 
her, and had told her that she would give her one of 
her dresses, and she had not known how to refuse Miss 

Mary. Then, if she had not gone, William 

Sounds of loud voices were heard in the garden, and 
the lean woman in the white muslin repeated some 
charge. Esther ran out to see what was happening, 
and there she witnessed a disgraceful scene. The lean 
woman in the muslin dress and the amber beads 
accused young Mr. Preston of something which he 
denied, and she heard William tell someone that he 
was mistaken, that he and his pals didn’t want no 
rowing at this ’ere ball, and what was more they 
didn’t mean to have none. 

And her heart filled with love for her big William. 
What a fine fellow Re was! how handsome were his 
shoulders beside that round-shouldered little man 
whom he so easily pulled aside ! and having crushed 
out the quarrel, he helped her on with her jacket, 
and, hanging on his arm, they returned home through 
the little town. Margaret followed with the railway 
porter ; Sarah was with her faithful admirer, a man 
with a red beard, whom she had picked up at the 
ball ; Grover waddled in the rear, embarrassed with the 


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green silk, which she held high out of the dust of the 
road. 

When they reached the station the sky was stained 
with rose, and the barren downs — more tin-like than 
ever in the shadowless light of dawn — stretched across 
the sunrise from Lancing to Brighton. The little 
birds sat ruffling their feathers, and, awaking to the 
responsibilities of the day, flew away into the com. 
The night had been close and sultry, and even at this 
hour there was hardly any freshness in the air. Esther 
looked at the hills, examining the landscape intently. 
She was thinking of the first time she saw it. Some 
vague association of ideas — the likeness that the morn- 
ing landscape bore to the evening landscape, or the 
wish to prolong the sweetness of these, the last 
moments of her happiness, impelled her to linger and 
to ask William if the woods and fields were not beau- 
tiful. The too familiar landscape awoke in William 
neither idea nor sensation ; Esther interested him 
more, and while she gazed dreamily on the hills he 
admired the white curve of her neck which showed 
beneath the unbuttoned jacket. She never looked 
prettier than she did that morning, standing on the 
dusty road, her white dress crui^led, the ends of the 
blue sash hanging beneath the black cloth jacket. 


XI. 


For days nothing was talked of but the ball — how 
this man had danced, the bad taste of this woman’s 
dress, and the possibility of a marriage. The ball had 
brought amusement to all, to Esther it had brought 
happiness. Her happiness was now visible in her 
face and audible in her voice, and Sarah’s ironical 
allusions to her inability to learn to read no longer 
annoyed her, no longer stirred her temper — her love 
seemed to induce forgiveness for all and love for every- 
thing. 

In the evenings when their work was done Esther 
and her lover lingered about the farm buildings, 
listening to the rooks, seeing the lights die in the 
west; and in the summer darkness about nine she 
tripped by his side when he took the letters to post. 
The wheat stacks were thatching, and in the rick- 
yard, in the carpenter’s shop, and in the whist of the 
woods they talked of love and marriage. They lay 
together in the warm valleys, listening to the tinkling 
of the sheep-bell, and one evening, putting his pipe 
aside, William threw his arm round her, whispering 
that she was his wife. The words were delicious in 
her fainting ears, and her will died in what seemed 
like irresistible destiny. She could not struggle with 
him, though she knew that her fate depended upon 
her resistance, and swooning away she awakened in 
pain, powerless to free herself. . . . Soon after 

95 


96 


ESTHER WATERS 


thoughts betook themselves on their painful way, and 
the stars were shining when he followed her across the 
down, beseeching her to listen. But she fled along the 
grey road and up the stairs to her room. Margaret 
was in bed, and awakening a little asked her what had 
kept her out so late. She did not answer . . . 

and hearing Margaret fall asleep she remembered the 
supper-table. Sarah, who had come in late, had sat 
down by her ; William sat on the opposite side ; Mrs. 
Latch was in her place, the jockeys were all together; 
Mr. Swindles, his snuff-box on the table; Margaret 
and Grover. Everyone had drunk a great deal ; and 
Mr. Leopold had gone to the beer cellar many times. 
She thought that she remembered feeling a little dizzy 
when William asked her to come for a stroll up the 
hill. They had passed through the hunting gate; 
they had wandered into the loneliness of the hills. 
Over the folded sheep the rooks came home noisily 
through a deepening sky. So far she remembered, 
and she could not remember further ; and all night lay 
staring into the darkness, and when Margaret called 
her in the morning she was pale and deathlike. 

“Whatever is the matter? You do look ill." 

“I did not sleep all last night. My head aches as if 
it would drop off. I don't feel as if I could go to work 
to-day. ’ ’ 

“That’s the worst of being a servant. Well or ill, it 
makes no matter.” She turned from the glass, and 
holding her hair in her left hand, leaned her head so 
that she might pin it. “You do look bad,” she 
remarked dryly. 

Never had they been so late! Half-past seven, and 
the shutters still up ! So said Margaret as they hurried 


ESTHER WATERS 


97 


downstairs. But Esther thought only of the meeting 
with William. She had seen him cleaning boots in 
the pantry as they passed. He waited till Margaret 
left her, till he heard the baize door which separated 
the back premises from the front of the house close, 
then he ran to the kitchen, where he expected to find 
Esther alone. But meeting his mother he mumbled 
some excuse, and retreated. There were visitors in 
the house, he had a good deal to do that morning, and 
Esther kept close to Mrs. Latch; but at breakfast it 
suddenly became necessary that she should answer 
him, and Sarah saw that Esther and William were no 
longer friends. 

“Well I never! Look at her! She sits there over 
her tea-cup as melancholy as a prayer-meeting.” 

“What is it to you?” said William. 

“What’s it to me? I don’t like an ugly face at the 
breakfast-table, that’s all.” 

“I wouldn’t be your looking-glass, then. Luckily 
there isn’t one here.” 

In the midst of an angry altercation, Esther walked 
out of the room. During dinner she hardly spoke at 
all. After dinner she went to her room, and did not 
come down until she thought he had gone out with the 
carriage. But she was too soon, William came run- 
ning down the passage to meet her. He laid his hand 
supplicatingly on her arm. 

“Don’t touch me!” she said, and her eyes filled 
with dangerous light. 

“Now, Esther! . . . Come, don’t lay it on too 

thick ! ’ ’ 

“Go away. Don’t speak to me!” 

“Just listen one moment, that’s all.” 


98 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Go away. If you don’t, I’ll go straight to Mrs. 
Barfield. ’ ’ 

She passed into the kitchen and shut the door in his 
face. He had gone a trifle pale, and after lingering a 
few moments he hurried away to the stables, and 
Esther saw him spring on the box. 

As it was frequent with Esther not to speak to any- 
one with whom she had had a dispute for a week or 
fifteen days, her continued sulk excited little suspicion, 
and the cause of the quarrel was attributed to some 
trifle. Sarah said — 

“Men are such fools. He is always begging of her 
to forgive him. Just look at him — he is still after her, 
following her into the wood-shed. ’ ’ 

She rarely answered him a yes or no, but would 
push past him, and if he forcibly barred the way she 
would say, “Let me go by, will you? You are inter- 
fering with my work.” And if he still insisted, she 
spoke of appealing to Mrs. Barfield. And if her 
heart sometimes softened, and an insidious thought 
whispered that it did not matter since they were going 
to be married, instinct forced her to repel him; her 
instinct was that she could only win his respect by 
refusing forgiveness for a long while. The religion in 
which her soul moved and lived — the sternest Protes- 
tantism — strengthened and enforced the original con- 
victions and the prejudices of her race; and the 
natural shame which she had first felt almost disap- 
peared in the violence of her virtue. She even ceased 
to fear discovery. What did it matter who knew, 
since she knew? She opened her heart to God. 
Christ looked down, but he seemed stern and unfor- 
giving. Her Christ was the Christ of her forefathers; 


ESTHER WATERS 


99 


and He had not forgiven, because she could not for- 
give herself. Hers was the unpardonable sin, the sin 
which her race had elected to fight against, and she 
lay down weary and sullen at heart. 

The days seemed to bring no change, and, wearied 
by her stubbornness, William said, “Let her sulk,” 
and he went out with Sarah; and when Esther saw 
them go down the yard her heart said, “Let him take 
her out, I don’t want him.” For she knew it to be a 
trick to make her jealous, and that he should dare such 
a trick angered her still further against him, and when 
they met in the garden, where she had gone with 
some food for the cats, and he said, “Forgive me, 
Esther, I only went out with Sarah because you drove 
me wild, ’ ’ she closed her teeth and refused to answer. 
But he stood in her path, determined not to leave her. 
“I am very fond of you, Esther, and I will marry you 
as soon as I have earned enough or won enough 
money to give you a comfortable ’ome. ” 

“You are a wicked man; I will never marry you.” 

“I am very sorry, Esther. But I am not as bad as 
you think for. You let your temper get the better of 
you. So soon as I have got a bit of money together — ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ If you were a good man you would ask me to marry 
you now. ’ ’ 

“I will if you like, but the truth is that I have only 
three pounds in the world. I have been unlucky 
lately ” 

“You think of nothing but that wicked betting. 
Come, let me pass; I’m not going to listen to a lot of 
lies.” 

“After the Leger ” 

“Let me pass. I will not speak to you. ” 


lOO 


ESTHER WATERS 


“But look here, Esther: marriage or no marriage, 
we can’t go on in this way: they’ll be suspecting 
something shortly.” 

“I shall leave Woodview. “ She had hardly spoken 
the words when it seemed clear to her that she must 
leave, and the sooner the better. “Come, let me pass. 

. . . If Mrs. Barfield ’’ 

An angry look passed over William’s face, and he 
said — 

“I want to act honest with you, and you won’t let 
me. If ever there was a sulky pig! . . . Sarah’s 

quite right ; you are just the sort that would make hell 
of a man’s life.’’ 

She was bound to make him respect her. She had 
vaguely felt from the beginning that this was her only 
hope, and now the sensation developed and defined 
itself into a thought, and she decided that she would 
not yield, but would continue to affirm her belief that 
he must acknowledge his sin, and then come and ask 
her to marry him. Above all things, Esther desired 
to see William repentant. Her natural piety, filling 
as it did her entire life, unconsciously made her deem 
repentance an essential condition of their happiness. 
How could they be happy if he were not a God-ffeaVing 
man? This question presented itself constantly, and 
she was suddenly convinced that she could not marry 
him until he had asked forgiveness of the Lord. Then 
they would be joined together, and would love each 
other faithfully unto death. 

But in conflict with her prejudices, her natural love 
of the man was as the sun shining above a fog-laden 
valley; rays of passion pierced her stubborn nature, 
dissolving it, and unconsciously her eyes sought Wil- 


ESTHER WATERS 


lOI 


Ham’s, and unconsciously her steps strayed from the 
kitchen when her ears told her he was in the passage. 
But when her love went out freely to William, when 
she longed to throw herself in his arms, saying, “Yes, 
I love you; make me your wife,’’ she noticed, or 
thought she noticed, that he avoided her eyes, and she 
felt that thoughts of which she knew nothing had 
obtained a footing in his mind, and she was full of 
foreboding. 

Her heart being intent on him, she was aware of 
much that escaped the ordinary eye, and she was the 
first to notice when the drawing-room bell rang, and 
Mr. Leopold rose, that William would say, “My legs 
are the youngest, don’t you stir.” 

No one else, not even Sarah, thought William 
intended more than to keep in Mr. Leopold’s good 
graces, but Esther, although unable to guess the truth, 
heard the still tinkling bell ringing the knell of her 
hopes. She noted, too, the time he remained upstairs, 
and asked herself anxiously what it was that detained 
him so long. The weather had turned colder lately. 

. Was it a fire that was wanted? In the course 
of the afternoon, she heard from Margaret that Miss 
Mary and Mrs. Barfield had gone to Southwick to make 
a call, and she heard from one of the boys that the 
Gaffer and Ginger had ridden over in the morning to 
Fendon Fair, and had not yet returned. It must have 
been Peggy who had rung the bell. Peggy? Sud- 
denly she remembered something — something that had 
been forgotten. The first Sunday, the first time she 
went to the library for family prayers, Peggy was sit- 
ting on the little green sofa, and as Esther passed 
across the room to her place she saw her cast a glance 


102 


ESTHER WATERS 


of admiration on William’s tall figure, and the memory 
of that glance had flamed up in her brain, and all that 
night Esther saw the girl with the pale face and the 
coal-black hair looking at her William. 

Next day Esther waited for the bell that was to call 
her lover from her. The afternoon wore slowly away, 
and she had begun to hope she was mistaken when the 
metal tongue commenced calling. She heard the 
baize door close behind him; but the bell still con- 
tinued to utter little pathetic notes. A moment after 
all was still in the corridor, and like one sunk to the 
knees in quicksands she felt that the time had come 
for a decided effort. But what could she do? She 
could not follow him to the drawing-room. She had 
begun to notice that he seemed to avoid her, and by 
his conduct seemed to wish that their quarrel might 
endure. But pride and temper had fallen from her, 
and she lived conscious of him, noting every sign, and 
intensely, all that related to him, divining all his inten- 
tions, and meeting him in the passage when he least 
expected her. 

“I’m always getting in your way,” she said, with a 
low, nervous laugh. 

“No harm in that; . . . fellow servants; there 

must be give and take. ’ ’ 

Tremblingly they looked at each other, feeling that 
the time had come, that an explanation was inevitable, 
but at that moment the drawing-room bell rang above 
their heads, and William said, “I must answer that 
bell.” He turned from her, and passed through the 
baize door before she had said another word. 

Sarah remarked that William seemed to spend a 
great deal of his time in the drawing-room, and Esther 


ESTHER WATERS 


103 


Started out of her moody contemplation, and, speaking 
instinctively, she said, “I don’t think much of ladies 
who go after their servants. ’ ’ 

Everyone looked up. Mrs. Latch laid her carving- 
knife on the meat and fixed her eyes on her son. 

“Lady?” said Sarah; “she’s no lady! Her mother 
used to mop out the yard before she was ‘churched.’ ” 
‘‘I can tell you what,” said William, “you had better 
mind what you are a-saying of, for if any of your talk 
got wind upstairs you’d lose yer situation, and it might 
be some time before yer got another!” 

“Lose my situation! and a good job, too. I shall 
always be able to suit mesel’; don’t you fear about 
me. But if it comes to talking about situations, I can 
tell you that you are more likely to lose yours than I 
am to lose mine.” 

William hesitated, and while he sought a judicious 
reply Mrs. Latch and Mr. Leopold, putting forth their 
joint authority, brought the discussion to a close. The 
jockey-boys exchanged, grins, Sarah sulked, Mr. Swin- 
dles pursed up his mouth in consideration, and the 
elder servants felt that the matter would not rest in 
the servants’ hall ; that evening it would be the theme 
of conversation in the “Red Lion,” and the next day 
it would be the talk of the town. 

About four o’clock Esther saw Mrs. Barfield, Miss 
Mary, and Peggy walk across the yard towards the gar- 
den, and as Esther had to go soon after to the wood- 
shed she saw Peggy slip out of the garden by a bottom 
gate and make her way through the evergreens. 
Esther hastened back to the kitchen and stood waiting 
for the bell to ring. She had not to wait long; the 
bell tinkled, but so faintly that Esther said, “She only 


104 


ESTHER WATERS 


just touched it; it is a signal; he was on the look-out 
for it; she did not want anyone else to hear.” 

Esther remembered the thousands of pounds she 
had heard that the young lady possessed, and the 
beautiful dresses she wore. There was no hope for 
her. How could there be? Her poor little wages and 
her print dress! He would never look at her again! 
But oh ! how cruel and wicked it was ! How could one 
who had so much come to steal from one who had so 
little? Oh, it was very cruel and very wicked, and no 
good would come of it either to her or to him ; of that 
she felt quite sure. God always punished the wicked. 
She knew he did not love Peggy. It was sin and 
shame; and after his promises — after what had hap- 
pened. Never would she have believed him to be so 
false. Then her thought turned to passionate hatred 
of the girl who had so cruelly robbed her. He had 
gone through that baize door, and no doubt he was sit- 
ting by Peggy in the new drawing-room. He had gone 
where she could not follow. He had gone where the 
grand folk lived in idleness, in the sinfulness of the 
world and the flesh, eating and gambling, thinking of 
nothing else, and with servants to wait on them, obey- 
ing their orders and saving them from every trouble. 
She knew that these fine folk thought servants inferior 
beings. But was she not of the same flesh and blood 
as they? Peggy wore a fine dress, but she was no 
better; take off her dress and they were the same, 
woman to woman. 

She pushed through the door and walked down the 
passage. A few steps brought her to the foot of a 
polished oak staircase, lit by a large window in col- 
oured glass, on either side of which there were statues. 


ESTHER WATERS 


105 

The staircase sloped slowly to an imposing landing set 
out with columns and blue vases and embroidered cur- 
tains. The girl saw these things vaguely, and she was 
conscious of a profusion of rugs, matting, and bright 
doors, and of her inability to decide which door was 
the drawing-room door — the drawing-room of which 
she had heard so much, and where even now, amid 
gold furniture and sweet-scented air, William listened 
to the wicked woman who had tempted him away from 
her. Suddenly William appeared, and seeing Esther 
he seemed uncertain whether to draw back or come 
forward. Then his face took an expression of mixed fear 
and anger ; and coming rapidly towards her, he said — 
“What are you doing here?” . . . then changing 

his voice, “This is against the rules of the ’ouse. “ 

“I want to see her.” 

“Anything else? What do you want to say to her? 
I won’t have it, I tell you. . . . What do you 
mean by spying after me? That’s your game, is it?’’ 
“I want to speak to her.’’ 

With averted face the young lady fled up the oak 
staircase, her handkerchief to her lips. Esther made a 
movement as if to follow, but William prevented her. 
She turned and walked down the passage and entered 
the kitchen. Her face was one white tint, her short, 
strong arms hung tremblingly, and William saw that it 
would be better to temporise. 

“Now look here, Esther,’’ he said, “you ought to be 
damned thankful to me for having prevented you from 
making a fool of yourself. ’ ’ 

Esther’s eyelids quivered, and then her eyes dilated. 
“Now, if Miss Margaret,’’ continued William, 
“had “ 


io6 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Go away! go away! I am “ At that moment 

the steel of a large, sharp-pointed knife lying on the 
table caught her eye. She snatched it up, and seeing 
blood she rushed at him. 

William retreated from her, and Mrs. Latch, coming 
suddenly in, caught her arm. Esther threw the knife ; 
it struck the wall, falling with a rattle on the meat 
screen. Escaping from Mrs. Latch, she rushed to 
secure it, but her strength gave way, and she fell back 
in a dead faint. 

“What have you been doing to the girl?” said Mrs. 
Latch. 

“Nothing, mother. . . . We had a few words, 

that was all. She said I should not go out with Sarah. ” 

“That is not true. ... I can read the lie in 
your face; a girl. doesn’t take up a knife unless a man 
well-nigh drives her mad. ’ ’ 

“That’s right; always side against your son! . . 

If you don’t believe me, get what you can out of her 
yourself.” And, turning on his heel, he walked out 
of the house. 

Mrs. Latch saw him pass down the yard towards the 
stables, and when Esther opened her eyes she looked 
at Mrs. Latch questioningly, unable to understand why 
the old woman was standing by her. 

“Are you better now, dear?” 

“Yes, but — but what ” Then remembrance 

struggled back. “Is he gone? Did I strike him? I 
remember that I ’ ’ 

“You did not hurt him.” 

“I don’t want to see him again. Far better not. I 
was mad. I did not know what I was doine. ’ ’ 

“You will tell me about it another time, dear.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


107 


“Where is he? tell me that; I must know.” 

“Gone to the stables, I think; but you must not go 
after him — you’ll see him to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“I do not want to go after him; but he isn’t hurt? 
That’s what I want to know.” 

“No, he isn’t hurt. . . . You’re getting 

stronger. . . . Lean on me. You’ll begin to feel 

better when you are in bed. I’ll bring you up your 
tea. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I shall be all right presently. But how’ll you 
manage to get the dinner?” 

“Don’t you worry about that; you go upstairs and 
lie down. ’ ’ 

A desolate hope floated over the surface of her brain 
that William might be brought back to her. 

In the evening the kitchen was full of people : Mar- 
garet, Sarah, and Grover were there, and she heard 
that immediately after lunch Mr. Leopold had been 
sent for, and the Gaffer had instructed him to pay 
William a month’s wages, and see that he left the 
house that very instant. Sarah, Margaret, and Grover 
watched Esther’s face and were surprised at her 
indifference. She even seemed pleased. She was 
pleased: nothing better could have happened. Wil- 
liam was now separated from her rival, and released 
from her bad influence he would return to his real 
love. At the first sign she would go to him, she would 
forgive him. But a little later, when the dishes came 
down from the dining-room, it was whispered that 
Peggy was not there. 

Later in the evening, when the servants were going 
to bed, it became known that she had left the house, 
that she had taken the six o’clock to Brighton. Esther 


io8 


ESTHER WATERS 


turned from the foot of the stair with a wild look. 
Margaret caught her. 

“It’s no use, dear; you can do nothing to-night.” 

“I can walk to Brighton.” 

“No, you can’t; you don’t know the way, and even 
if you did you don’t know where they are.” 

Neither Sarah nor Grover made any remark, and in 
silence the servants went to their rooms. Margaret 
closed the door and turned to look at Esther, who had 
fallen on the chair, her eyes fixed in vacancy. 

“I know what it is; I was the same when Jim Story 
got the sack. It seems as if one couldn’t live through 
it, and yet one does somehow.” 

‘ ‘ I wonder if they’ll marry. ’ ’ 

“Most probable. She has a lot of money. ” 

Two days after a cab stood in the yard in front of 
the kitchen window. Peggy’s luggage was being 
piled upon it — two large, handsome basket boxes with 
the initials painted on them. Kneeling on the box- 
seat, the coachman leaned over the roof making room 
for another — a small box covered with red cowhide and 
tied with a rough rope. The little box in its poor 
simplicity brought William back to Esther, whelming 
her for a moment in, so acute a sense of her loss that 
she had to leave the kitchen. She went into the scul- 
lery, drew the door after her, sat down, and hid her 
face in her apron. A stifled sob or two, and then she 
recovered her habitual gravity of expression, and con- 
tinued her work as if nothing had happened. 


XII. 


“They are just crazy about it upstairs. Ginger and 
the Gaifer are the worst. They say they had better 
sell the place and build another house somewhere else. 
None of the county people will call on them now — and 
just as they were beginning to get on so well ! Miss 
Mary, too, is terrible cut up about it ; she says it will 
interfere with her prospects, and that Ginger has noth- 
ing to do now but to marry the kitchen-maid to com- 
plete the ruin of the Barfields. ’ ’ 

“Miss Mary is far too kind to say anything to wound 
another’s feelings. It is only a nasty old deceitful 
thing like yourself who could think of such a thing.” 

“Eh, you got it there, my lady,” said Sarah, who 
had had a difference with Grover, and was anxious to 
avenge it. 

Grover looked at Sarah in astonishment, and her look 
clearly said, “Is everyone going to side with that little 
kitchen-maid?” 

Then, to flatter Mrs. Latch, Sarah spoke of the 
position the Latches had held three generations ago ; 
the Barfields were then nobodies; they had nothing 
even now but their money, and that had come out of a 
livery stable. “And it shows, too; just compare Gin- 
ger with young Preston or young Northcote. Anyone 
could tell the difference. ’ ’ 

Esther listened with an unmoved face and a heavy 
ache in her heart. She had now not an enemy nor yet 

109 


1 10 


ESTHER WATERS 


an opponent; the cause of rivalry and jealousy being 
removed, all were sorry for her. They recognised that 
she had suffered and was suffering, and seeing none 
but friends about her, she was led to think how 
happy she might have been in this beautiful house if 
it had not been for William. She loved her work, for 
she was working for those she loved. She could imag- 
ine no life happier than hers might have been. But 
she had sinned, and the Lord had punished her for 
sin, and she must bear her punishment uncomplain- 
ingly, giving Him thanks that He had imposed no 
heavier one upon her. 

Such reflection was the substance of Esther’s mind 
for three months after William’s departure; and in the 
afternoons, about three o’clock, when her work 
paused, Esther’s thoughts would congregate and settle 
on the great misfortune of her life — William’s deser- 
tion. 

It was one afternoon at the beginning of December ; 
Mrs. Latch had gone upstairs to lie down. Esther had 
drawn her chair towards the fire. A broken-down 
race-horse, his legs bandaged from his knees to his 
fetlocks, had passed up the yard; he was going for 
walking exercise on the downs, and when the sound of 
his hoofs had died away Esther was quite alone. She 
sat on her wooden chair facing the wide kitchen win- 
dow. She had advanced one foot on the iron fender; 
her head leaned back, rested on her hand. She did 
not think — her mind was lost in vague sensation of 
William, and it was in this death of active memory 
that something awoke within her, something that 
seemed to her like a flutter of wings; her heart 
seemed to drop from its socket, and she nearly fainted 


ESTHER WATERS 


III 


away, but recovering herself she stood by the kitchen 
table, her arms drawn back and pressed to her sides, a 
death-like pallor over her face, and drops of sweat on 
her forehead. The truth was borne in upon her ; she 
realised in a moment part of the awful drama that 
awaited her, and from which nothing could free her, 
and which she would have to live through hour by 
hour. So dreadful did it seem, that she thought her 
brain must give way. She would have to leave Wood- 
view. Oh, the shame of confession! Mrs. Barfield, 
who had been so good to her, and who thought so 
highly of her. Her father would not have her at home ; 
she would be homeless in London. No hope of obtain- 
ing a situation. . . . they would send her away 

without a character, homeless in London, and every 
month her position growing more desperate. . . . 

A sickly faintness crept up through her. The flesh 
had come to the relief of the spirit ; and she sank upon 
her chair, almost unconscious, sick, it seemed, to 
death, and she rose from the chair wiping her forehead 
slowly with her apron. . . . She might be mis- 

taken. And she hid her face in her hands, and then, 
falling on her knees, her arms thrown forward upon 
the table, she prayed for strength to walk without 
flinching under any cross that He had thought fit to 
lay upon her. 

There was still the hope that she might be mistaken ; 
and this hope lasted for one week, for two, but at the 
end of the third week it perished, and she abandoned 
herself in prayer. She prayed for strength to endure 
with courage what she now knew she must endure, 
and she prayed for light to guide her in her present 
decision. Mrs. Barfield, however much she might pity 


112 


ESTHER WATERS 


her, could not keep her once she knew the truth, 
whereas none might know the truth if she did not tell 
it. She might remain at Woodview earning another 
quarter’s wages; the first she fiad spent on boots and 
clothes, the second she had just been paid. If she 
stayed on for another quarter she would have eight 
pounds, and with that money, and much less time to 
keep herself, she might be able to pull through. But 
would she be able to go undetected for nearly three 
whole months, until her next wages came due? She 
must risk it. 

Three months of constant fear and agonising sus- 
pense wore away, and no one, not even Margaret, sus- 
pected Esther’s condition. Encouraged by her 
success, and seeing still very little sign of change in 
her person, and as every penny she could earn was of 
vital, consequence in the coming time, Esther deter- 
mined to risk another month; then she would give 
notice and leave. Another month passed, and Esther 
v/as preparing for departure when a whisper went 
round, and before she could take steps to leave she was 
told that Mrs. Barfield wished to see her in the library. 
Esther turned a little pale, and the expression of her 
face altered ; it seemed to her impossible to go before 
Mrs. Barfield and admit her shame. Margaret, who 
was standing near and saw what was passing in her 
mind, said — 

“Pull yourself together, Esther. You know the 
Saint — she’s not a bad sort. Like all the real good 
ones, she is kind enough to the faults of others. ’ ’ 

“What’s this? What’s the matter with Esther?” said 
Mrs. Latch, who had not yet heard of Esther’s mis- 
fortune. 


ESTHER WATERS 


“3 

“ril tell you presently, Mrs. Latch. Go, dear, get 
it over.” 

Esther hurried down the passage and passed 
through the baize door without further thought. She 
had then but to turn to the left and a few steps would 
bring her to the library door. The room was already 
present in her mind. She could see it. The dim 
light, the little green sofa, the round table covered 
with books, the piano at the back, the parrot in the 
comer, and the canaries in the window. She knocked 
at the door. The well-known voice said, “Come in.” 
She turned the handle, and found herself alone with 
hfer mistress. Mrs. Barfield laid down the book she 
was reading, and looked up. She did not look as 
angry as Esther had imagined, but her voice was 
harder than usual. 

“Is this true, Esther?” 

Esther hung down her head. She could not speak 
at first; then she said, “Yes.” 

“I thought you were a good girl, Esther.” 

“So did I, ma’am.” 

Mrs. Barfield looked at the girl quickly, hesitated a 
moment, and then said — 

“And all this time — ^how long is it?” 

“Nearly seven months, ma’am.” 

“And all this time you were deceiving us.” 

“I was three months gone before I knew it myself, 
ma’am.” 

“Three months! Then for three months you have 
knelt every Sunday in prayer in this room, for twelve 
Sundays you sat by me learning to read, and you never 
said a word?” 

A certain harshness in Mrs. Barfield’s voice awak- 


ESTHER WATERS 


114 

ened a rebellious spirit in Esther, and a lowering 
expression gathered above her eyes. She said — 

“Had I told you, you would have sent me away then 
and there. I had only a quarter’s wages, and should 
have starved or gone and drowned myself.” 

“I’m sorry to hear you speak like that, Esther.” 

“It is trouble that makes me, ma’am, and I have had 
a great deal.” 

“Why did you not confide in me? I have not shown 
myself cruel to you, have I?” 

“No, indeed, ma’am. You are the best mistress a 
servant ever had, but ” 

“But what?” 

“Why, ma’am, it is this way. ... I hated being 
deceitful — indeed I did. But I can no longer think of 
myself. There is another to think for now. ’ ’ 

There was in Mrs. Barfield’s look something akin to 
admiration, and she felt she had not been wholly wrong 
in her estimate of the girl’s character; she said, and 
in a different intonation — 

“Perhaps you were right, Esther. I couldn’t have 
kept you on, on account of the bad example to the 
younger servants. I might have helped you with 
money. But six months alone in London and in your 
condition! ... I am glad you did not tell me, 
Esther ; and as you say there is another to think of 
now, I hope you will never neglect your child, if God 
give it to you alive.” 

“I hope not, ma’am; I shall try and do my best.” 

‘ ‘ My poor girl ! my poor girl ! you do not know what 
trial is in store for you. A girl like you, and only 
twenty! . . . Oh, it is a shame! May God give 
you courage to bear up in your adversity!” 


ESTHER WATERS 


115 

“I know there is many a hard time before me, but I 
have prayed for strength, and God will give me 
strength, and I must not complain. My case is not so 
bad as many another. I have nearly eight pounds. 
I shall get on, ma’am, that is to say if you will stand 
by me and not refuse me a character.” 

“Can I give you a character? You were tempted, 
you were led into temptation. I ought to have 
watched over you better — mine is the responsibility. 
Tell me, it was not your fault.” 

“It is always a woman’s fault, ma’am. But he 
should not have deserted me as he did, that’s the only 
thing I reproach him with, the rest was my fault — I 
shouldn’t have touched the second glass of ale. 
Besides, I was in love with him, and you know what 
that is. I thought no harm, and I let him kiss me. 
He used to take me out for walks on the hill and round 
the farm. He told me he loved me, and would make 
me his wife — that’s how it was. Afterwards he asked 
me to wait till after the Leger, and that riled me, and 
I knew then how wicked I had been. I would not go 
out with him or speak to him any more ; and while our 
quarrel was going on Miss Peggy went after him, and 
that’s how I got left.” 

At the mention of Peggy’s name a cloud passed over 
Mrs. Barfield’s face. “You have been shamefully 
treated, my poor child. I knew nothing of all this. 
So he said he would marry you if he won his bet on 
the Leger? Oh, that betting! I know that nothing 
else is thought of here; upstairs and downstairs, the 
whole place is poisoned with it, and it is the fault of — ” 
Mrs. Barfield walked hurriedly across the room, but 
when she turned the sight of Esther provoked her into 


ii6 


ESTHER WATERS 


speech. “I have seen it all my life, nothing else, and 
I have seen nothing come of it but sin and sorrow; 
you are not the first victim. Ah, what ruin, what 
misery, what death!” 

Mrs. Barfield covered her face with her hands, as if 
to shut out the memories that crowded upon her. 

“I think, ma’am, if you will excuse my saying so, 
that a great deal of harm do come from this betting on 
race-horses. The day when you was all away at Good- 
wood when the horse won, I went down -to see what 
the sea was like here. I was brought up by the sea- 
side, at Barnstaple. On the beach I met Mrs. Leopold, 
that is to say Mrs. Randal, John’s wife; she seemed 
to be in great trouble, she looked that melancholy, and 
for company’s sake she asked me to come home to tea 
with her. She was in that state of mind, ma’am, that 
she forgot the teaspoons were in pawn, and when she 
could not give me one she broke down completely, and 
told me what her troubles had been. ’ ’ 

“What did she tell you, Esther?” 

“I hardly remember, ma’am, but it was all the same 
thing — ruin if the horse didn’t win, and more betting 
if he did. But she said they never had been in such a 
fix as the day Silver Braid won. If he had been 
beaten they would have been thrown out on the street, 
and from what I have heard the best half of the town 
too.” 

“So that little man has suffered. I thought he was 
wiser than the rest. . . . This house has been the 

ruin of the neighbourhood; we have dispensed vice 
instead of righteousness.” Walking towards the win- 
dow, Mrs. Barfield continued to talk to herself. “I 
have struggled against the evil all my life, and without 


ESTHER WATERS 


117 

result. How much more misery shall I see come of 
it?” Turning then to Esther she said, “Yes, the bet- 
ting is an evil — one from which many have suffered — 
but the question is now about yourself, Esther. How 
much money have you?” 

“I have about eight pounds, ma’am.” 

“And how much do you reckon will see you through 
it?” 

“I don’t know, ma’am, I have no experience. I 
think father will let me stay at home if I can pay my 
way. I could manage easily on seven shillings a 
week. When my time comes I shall go to the hos- 
pital.” 

While Esther spoke Mrs. Barfield calculated roughly 
that about ten pounds would meet most of her wants. 
Her train fare, two months’ board at seven shillings a 
week, the room she would have to take near the hos- 
pital before her confinement, and to which she would 
return with her baby — all these would run to about 
four or five pounds. There would be baby’s clothes 
to buy. ... If she gave four pounds Esther 
would have then twelve pounds, and with that she 
would be able to manage. Mrs. Barfield went over to 
an old-fashioned escritoire, and, pulling out some 
small drawers, took from one some paper packages 
which she unfolded. “Now, my girl, look here. 
I’m going to give you four pounds; then you will 
have twelve, and that ought to see you through your 
trouble. You have been a good servant, Esther; I like 
you very much, and am truly sorry to part with you. 
You will write and tell me how you are getting on, and 
if one of these days you want a place, and I have one 
to give you, I shall be glad to take you back.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


Ii8 

Harshness deadened and hardened her feelings, yet 
she was easily moved by kindness, and she longed to 
throw herself at her mistress’s feet; but her nature 
did not admit of such effusion, and she said, in her 
blunt English way — 

“You are far too good, ma’am; I do not deserve 
such treatment — I know I don’t." 

“Say no more, Esther. I hope that the Lord may 
give you strength to bear your cross. . . . Now 

go and pack up your box. But, Esther, do you feel 
your sin, can you truly say honestly before God that 
you repent?’’ 

“Yes, ma’am, I think I can say all that." 

“Then, Esther, come and kneel down and pray to 
God to give you strength in the future to stand 
against temptation. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Barfield took Esther’s hand and they knelt 
down by the round table, leaning their hands on its 
edge. And, in a high, clear voice, Mrs. Barfield 
prayed aloud, Esther repeating the words after her — 

* ‘ Dear Lord, Thou knowest all things, knowest how 
Thy servant has strayed and has fallen into sin. But 
Thou hast said there is more joy in heaven over one sin- 
ner that repenteth than over ninety and nine just men. 
Therefore, Lord, kneeling here before Thee, we pray 
that this poor girl, who repents of the evil she has 
done, may be strengthened in Thy mercy to stand 
firm against temptation. Forgive her sin, even as 
Thou forgavest the woman of Samaria. Give her 
strength to walk uprightly before Thee, and give her 
strength to bear the pain and the suffering that lie 
before her. ” 

The women rose from their knees and stood looking 


ESTHER WATERS 


119 

at each other. Esther’s eyes were full of tears. With- 
out speaking she turned to go. 

“One word more, Esther. You asked me just now 
for a character ; I hesitated, but it seems to me now 
that it would be wrong to refuse. If I did you might 
never get a place, and then it would be impossible to 
say what might happen. I am not certain that I am 
doing right, but I know what it means to refuse to 
give a servant a character, and I cannot take upon 
myself the responsibility.” 

Mrs. Barfield wrote out a character for Esther, in 
which she described her as an honest, hard-working 
girl. She paused at the word “reliable,” and wrote 
instead, “I believe her to be at heart a thoroughly 
religious girl. ’ ’ 

She went upstairs to pack her box, and when she 
came down she found all the women in the kitchen ; 
evidently they were waiting for her. Coming forward, 
Sarah said — 

“I hope we shall part friends, Esther; any quarrels 

we may have had There’s no ill-feeling now, is 

there?” 

“I bear no one any ill-feeling. We have been 
friends these last months ; indeed, everyone has been 
very kind to me.” And Esther kissed Sarah on both 
cheeks. 

“I’m sure we’re all sorry to lose you,” said Mar- 
garet, pressing forward, “and we hope you’ll write and 
let us know how you are getting on. ” 

Margaret, who was a tender-heai 
cry, and, kissing Esther, she decl 
never got on with a girl who slept : 
before. Esther shook hands with Grover, ana mcii 


120 


ESTHER WATERS 


her eyes met Mrs. Latch’s. The old woman took her 
in her arms. 

“It breaks my heart to think that one belonging to 

me should have done you such a wrong But if 

you want for anything let me know, and you shall have 
it. You will want money; I have some here for you.’* 

“Thank you, thank you, but I have all I want. 
Mrs. Barfield has been very good to me. ’ ’ 

The babbling of so many voices drew Mr. Leopold 
from the pantry; he came with a glass of beer in his 
hand, and this suggested a toast to Sarah. “Let’s 
drink baby’s health,” she said. “Mr. Leopold won’t 
refuse us the beer.” 

The idea provoked some good-natured laughter, and 
Esther hid her face in her hands and tried to get away. 
But Margaret would not allow her. “What non-, 
sense!” she said. “We don’t think any the worse of 
you ; why, that’s an accident that might happen to any 
of us.” 

“T hope not,” said Esther. 

The jug of beer was finished; she was kissed and 
hugged again, some tears were shed, and Esther 
walked down the yard through the stables. 

The avenue was full of wind and rain ; the branches 
creaked dolefully overhead; the lane was drenched, 
and the bare fields were fringed with white mist, and 
the houses seemed very desolate by the bleak sea; 
and the girl’s soul was desolate as the landscape. She 
had come to Woodview to escape the suffering of a 
home which had become unendurable, and she was 
"back m circumstances a hundred times worse 
than those in which she had left it, and she was going 
back with the memory of the happiness she had lost. 


ESTHER WATERS 


121 


All the grief and trouble that girls of her class have so 
frequently to bear gathered in Esther’s heart when she 
looked out of the railway carriage window and saw for 
the last time the stiff plantations on the downs and the 
angles of the Italian house between the trees. She 
drew her handkerchief from her jacket, and hid her 
distress as well as she could from the other occupants 
of the carriage. 


XIII. 


When she arrived at Victoria it was raining. She 
picked up her skirt, and as she stepped across a pud- 
dle a wild and watery wind swept up the wet streets, 
catching her full in the face. 

She had left her box in the cloak-room, for she did 
not know if her father would have her at home. Her 
mother would tell her what she thought, but no one 
could say for certain what he would do. If she 
brought the box he might fling it after her into the 
street ; better come without it, even if she had to go 
back through the wet to fetch it. At that moment 
another gust drove the rain violently over her, forcing 
it through her boots. The sky was a tint of ashen 
grey, and all the low brick buildings were veiled in 
vapour; the rough roadway was full of pools, and 
nothing was heard but the melancholy bell of the tram- 
car. She hesitated, not wishing to spend a penny 
unnecessarily, but remembering that a penny wise is 
often a pound foolish she called to the driver and got 
in. The car passed by the little brick street where the 
Saunders lived, and when Esther pushed the door open 
she could see into the kitchen and overhear the voices 
of the children. Mrs. Saunders was sweeping down 
the stairs, but at the sound of footsteps she ceased to 
bang the broom, and, stooping till her head looked over 
the banisters, she cried — 

“Who is it?” 

“Me, mother.” 


122 


BSTHBR WATBRS 


123 


“What! You, Esther?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

Mrs. Saunders hastened down, and, leaning the 
broom against the wall, she took her daughter in her 
arms and kissed her. “Well, this is nice to see you 
again, after this long while. But you are looking a bit 
poorly, Esther.” Then her face changed expression. 
“What has happened? Have you lost your situation?” 

“Yes, mother.” 

“Oh, I am that sorry, for we thought you was so 
'appy there and liked your mistress above all those 
you ’ad ever met with. Did you lose your temper and 
answer her back? They is often trying, I know that, 
and your own temper — you was never very sure of it. ’ ’ 

“I’ve no fault to find with my mistress ; she is the 
kindest in the world — none better, — and my temper — it 
wasn’t that, mother ” 

“My own darling, tell me ” 

Esther paused. The children had ceased talking in 
the kitchen, and the front door was open. “Come 
into the parlour. We can talk quietly there. . . . 

When do you expect father home?” 

“Not for the best part of a couple of hours yet. ” 

Mrs. Saunders waited until Esther had closed the 
front door. Then they went into the parlour and sat 
down side by side on the little horsehair sofa placed 
against the wall facing the window. The anxiety in 
their hearts betrayed itself on their faces. 

“I had to leave, mother. I’m seven months gone.” 

“Oh, Esther, Esther, I cannot believe it!” 

“Yes, mother, it is quite true.” 

Esther hurried through her story, and when her 
mother questioned her regarding details she said — 


124 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Oh, mother, what does it matter? I don’t care to 
talk about it more than I can help. ’ ’ 

Tears had begun to roll down Mrs. Saunders’ 
cheeks, and when she wiped them away with the comer 
of her apron, Esther heard a sob. 

“Don’t cry, mother,’’ said Esther. “I have been 
very wicked, I know, but God will be good to me. I 
always pray to him, just as you taught me to do, and I 
daresay I shall get through my trouble somehow. ’ ’ 
“Your father will never let you stop ’ere; ’e ’ll say, 
just as afore, that there be too many mouths to feed 
as it is. ’ ’ 

“I don’t want him to keep me for nothing — I know 
well enough if I did that ’e’d put me outside quick 
enough. But I can pay my way. I earned good 
money while I was with the Barfields, and though she 
did tell me I must go, Mrs. Barfield — the Saint they 
call her, and. she is a saint if ever there was one — gave 
me four pounds to see me, as .she said, through my 
trouble. I’ve better than eleven pound. Don’t cry, 
mother dear; crying won’t do no good, and I want 
you to help me. So long as the money holds out I can 
get a lodging anywhere, but I’d like to be near you; 
and father might be glad to let me have the parlour 
and my food for ten or eleven shillings a week — I 
could afford as much as that, and he never was the 
man to turn good money from his door. Do yer think 
he will?” 

“I dunno, dearie; ’tis hard to say what ’e’ll do; 
he’s a ’ard man to live with. I’ve ’ad a terrible time 
of it lately, and them babies alius coming. Ah, we 
poor women have more than our right to bear with ! ’ ’ 
“Poor mother!” said Esther, and, taking her 


ESTHER WATERS 


125 


mother’s hand in hers, she passed her arm round her, 
drew her closer, and kissed her. “I know what he 
was; is he any worse now?” 

“Well, I think he drinks more, and is even rougher. 
It was only the other day, just as I was attending to 
his dinner — it was a nice piece of steak, and it looked 
so nice that I cut off a weany piece to taste. He sees 
me do it, and he cries out, ‘Now then, guts, what are 
you interfering with my dinner for?’ I says, ‘I only 
cut off a tiny piece to taste.’ ‘Well, then, taste that,’ 
he says, and strikes me clean between the eyes. Ah, 
yes, lucky for you to be in service ; you’ve half forgot 
by now what we’ve to put up with ’ere.” 

“You was always that soft with him, mother; he 
never touched me since I dashed the hot water in his 
face. ’ ’ 

“Sometimes I thinks I can bear it no longer, Esther, 
and long to go and drown meself. Jenny and Julia 
— you remember little Julia; she ’as grown up such 
a big girl, and is getting on so well — they are both 
at work now in the kitchen. Johnnie gives us a 
deal of trouble ; he cannot tell a word of truth ; father 
took off his strap the other day and beat him dreadful, 
but it ain’t no use. If it wasn’t for Jenny and Julia I 
don’t think we should ever make both ends meet; but 
they works all day at the dogs, and at the warehouse 
their dogs is said to be neater and more lifelike than 
any other. Their poor fingers is worn awa}^ cramming 
the paper into the moulds; but they never complains, 
no more shouldn’t I if he was a bit gentler and didn’t 
take more than half of what he earns to the public- 
’ouse. I was glad you was away, Esther, for you alius 
was of an ’asty temper and couldn’t ’ave borne it. I 


126 


ESTHER WATERS 


don’t want to make my troubles seem worse than they 
be, but sometimes I think I will break up, ’special 
when I get to thinking what will become of us and all 
them children, money growing less and expenses 
increasing. I haven’t told yer, but I daresay you have 
noticed that another one is coming. It is the children 
that breaks us poor women down altogether. Ah, 
well, yours be the hard^^trouble, but you must put a 
brave face on it; we’ll do the best we can; none of us 
can say no more.” 

Mrs. Saunders wiped her eyes with the comer of her 
apron; Esther looked at her with her usual quiet, 
stubborn stare, and without further words mother and 
daughter went into the kitchen where the girls were at 
work. It was a long, low room, with one window 
looking on a small back-yard, at the back of which was 
the coal-hole, the dust-bin, and a small outhouse. 
There was a long table and a bench ran along the wall. 
The fireplace was on the left-hand side; the dresser 
stood against the opposite wall; and amid the poor 
crockery, piled about in every available space, were 
the toy dogs, some no larger than your hand, others 
almost as large as a small poodle. Jenny and Julia 
had been working busily for some days, and were now 
finishing the last few that remained of the order they 
had received from the shop they worked for. Three 
small children sat on the floor tearing the brown paper, 
which they handed as it was wanted to Jenny and Julia. 
The big girls leaned over the table in front of iron 
moulds, filling them with brown paper, pasting it 
down, tucking it in with strong and dexterous fingers. 

“Why, it is Esther!” said Jenny, the elder girl. 
“And, lorks, ain’t she grand! — quite the lady. Why, 


ESTHER WATERS 


127 


we hardly knowed ye. ’ ’ And having kissed their sister 
circumspectly, careful not to touch the clothes they 
admired with their pasty fingers, they stood lost in 
contemplation, thrilled with consciousness of the 
advantage of service. 

Esther took Harry, a fine little boy of four, up in her 
arms, and asked him if he remembered her. 

“Naw, I don’t think I do. Will 00 put me down?” 

“But you do, Lizzie?’’ she said, addressing a girl of 
seven, whose bright red hair shone like a lamp in the 
gathering twilight. 

“Yes, you’re my big sister; you’ve been away this 
year or more in service.” 

“And you, Maggie, do you remember me too?” 

Maggie at first seemed doubtful, but after a 
moment’s reflection she nodded her head vigorously. 

“Come, Esther, see how Julia is getting on,” said 
Mrs. Saunders; “she makes her dogs nearly as fast as 
Jenny. She is still a bit careless in drawing the paper 
into the moulds. Well, just as I was speaking of it : ’ere’s 
a dog with one shoulder just ’arf the size of the other. ” 

“Oh, mother. I’m sure nobody ’d never know the 
difference.” 

“Wouldn’t know the difference! Just look at the 
hanimal! Is it natural? Sich carelessness I never 
seed.” 

“Esther, just look at Julia’s dog,” cried Jenny, “ ’e 
’asn’t got no more than arf a shoulder. It’s lucky 
mother saw it, for if the manager ’d seen it he’d have 
found something wrong with I don’t know ’ow many 
more, and docked us maybe a shilling or more on the 
week’s work.” 

Julia began to cry. 


128 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Jenny is always down on me. She is jealous just 
because mother said 1 worked as fast as she did. If 
her work was overhauled “ 

“There are all my dogs there on the right-hand side 
of the dresser — I always ’as the right for my dogs 
— and if you find one there with an uneven shoulder 
I’ll—” 

“Jennie is so fat that she likes everything like ’erself ; 
that’s why she stuffs so much paper into her dogs.” 

It was little Ethel speaking from her corner, and her 
explanation of the excellence of Jenny’s dogs, given 
with stolid childish gravity in the interval of tearing a 
large sheet of brown paper, made them laugh. But in 
the midst of the laughter thought of her great trouble 
came upon Esther. Mrs. Saunders noticed this, and a 
look of pijy came into her eyes, and to make an end of 
the unseemly gaiety she took Julia’s dog and told her 
that it must be put into the mould again. She cut the 
skin away, and helped to force the stiff paper over the 
edge of the mould. 

“Now,” she said, “it is a dog; both shoulders is 
equal, and if it was a real dog he could walk. ’ ’ 

“Oh, bother!” cried Jenny, “I shan’t be able to fin- 
ish my last dozen this evening. I ’ave no more but- 
tons for the eyes, and the black pins that Julia is 
a-using of for her little one won’t do for this size.” 

“Won’t they give yer any at the shop? I was 
counting on the money they would bring to finish the 
week with. ’ ’ 

“No, we can’t get no buttons in the shop: that’s 
’ome work, they says; and even if they ’ad them they 
wouldn’t let us put them in there. That’s ’ome work 
they says to everything ; they is a that disagreeable lot. ’ ’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


129 


“But 'aven’t you got sixpence, mother? and I'll run 
and get them. ’ ’ 

“No, I’ve run short.” 

“But,” said Esther, “I’ll give you sixpence to get 
your buttons with. ’ ’ 

“Yes, that’s it; give us sixpence, and yer shall have 
it back to-morrow if you are 'ere. How long are yer 
up for? If not, we’ll send it. ” 

“I’m not going back just yet.” 

“What, ’ave yer lost yer situation?” 

“No, no,” said Mrs. Saunders, “Esther ain’t well — 
she ’as come up for ’er ’ealth; take the sixpence and 
run along. ’ ’ 

“May I go too?” said Julia. “I’ve been at work 
since eight, and I’ve only a few more dogs to do.” 

“Yes, you may go with your sister. Run along; 
don’t bother me any more. I’ve got to get your 
father’s supper. ’ ’ 

When Jenny and Julia had left, Esther and Mrs. 
Saunders could talk freely; the other children were 
too young to understand. 

“There is times when ’e is well enough,” said Mrs. 
Saunders, “and others when ’e is that awful. It is 
’ard to know ’ow to get him, but ’e is to be got if we 
only knew ’ow. Sometimes ’tis most surprising how 
easy ’e do take things, and at others — well, as about 
that piece of steak that I was a-telling you of. Should 
you catch him in that humour ’e's as like as not to take 
ye by the shoulder and put you out ; but if he be in 
a good humour ’e’s as like as not to say, ‘Well, my 
gal, make yerself at ’ome. ’ ” 

“He can but turn me out. I’ll leave yer to speak to 
’im, mother.” 


130 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I’ll do my best, but I don’t answer for nothing. A 
nice bit of supper do make a difference in ’im, and as 
ill luck will 'ave it, I’ve nothing but a rasher, whereas 
if I only ’ad a bit of steak ’e’d brighten up the 
moment he clapt eyes on it and become that cheerful. ” 
‘ ‘ But, mother, if you think it will make a difference 

I can easily slip round to the butcher’s and ’’ 

“Yes, get half a pound, and when it’s nicely cooked 
and inside him it’ll make all the difference. That will 
please him. But I don’t like to see you spending your 
money — money that you’ll want badly. ’ ’ 

“It can’t be helped, mother. I shan’t be above a 
minute or two away, and I’ll bring back a pint of 
porter with the steak. ’ ’ 

Coming back she met Jenny and Julia, and when she 
told them her purchases they remarked significantly 
that they were now quite sure of a pleasant evening. 

“When he’s done eating ’e’ll go out to smoke his 
pipe with some of his chaps,’’ said Jenny, “and we 
shall have the ’ouse to ourselves, and yer can tell us all 
about your situation. They keeps a butler and a foot- 
man, don’t they? They must be grand folk. And 
what was the footman like? Was he very handsome? 
I’ve ’eard that they all is. ’ ’ 

“And you’ll show us yer dresses, won’t you?’’ said 
Julia. “How many ’ave you got, and ’ow did yer 
manage to save up enough money to buy such beauties, 
if they’re all like that?” 

“This dress was given to me by Miss Mary.’’ 

“Was it? She must be a real good ’un. I should 
like to go to service; I’m tired of making dogs; we 
have to work that ’ard, and it nearly all goes to the 
public ; father drinks worse than ever. ’ ’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


131 

Mrs. Saunders approved of Esther’s purchase ; it was 
a beautiful bit of steak. The fire was raked up, and a 
few minutes after the meat was roasting on the grid- 
iron. The clock continued its coarse ticking amid the 
rough plates on the dresser. Jenny and Julia hastened 
with their work, pressing the paper with nervous 
fingers into the moulds, calling sharply to the little 
group for what sized paper they required. Esther and 
Mrs. Saunders waited, full of apprehension, for the 
sound of a heavy tread in the passage. At last it 
came. Mrs. Saunders turned the meat, hoping that 
its savoury odour would greet his nostrils from afar, 
and that he would come to them mollified and amiable. 

“Hullo, Jim; yer are ’ome a bit earlier to-day. I’m 
not quite ready with yer supper. ’ ’ 

“I dunno that I am. Hullo, Esther! Up for the 
day? Smells damned nice, what you’re cooking for 
me, missus. What is it?’’ 

“Bit of steak, Jim. It seems a beautiful piece. 
Hope it will eat tender.’’ 

“That it will. I was afeard you would have noth- 
ing more than a rasher, and I’m that ’ungry. ’’ 

Jim Saunders was a stout, dark man about forty. 
He had not shaved for some days, his face was black 
with beard ; his moustache was cut into bristle ; around 
his short, bull neck he wore a ragged comforter, and 
his blue jacket was shabby and dusty, and the trousers 
were worn at the heels. He threw his basket into a 
corner, and then himself on the rough bench nailed 
against the wall, and there, without speaking another 
word, he lay sniffing the odour of the meat like an 
animal going to be fed. Suddenly a whiff from the 
beer jug came into his nostrils, and reaching out his 


132 


ESTHER WATERS 


rough hand he looked into the jug to assure himself he 
was not mistaken. 

“What’s this?’’ he exclaimed; “a pint of porter! 
Yer are doing me pretty well this evening, I reckon. 
What’s up?’’ 

“Nothing, Jim; nothing, dear, but just as Esther 
has come up we thought we’d try to make yer comfort- 
able. It was Esther who fetched it; she ’as been 
doing pretty well, and can afford it. ’ ’ 

Jim looked at Esther in a sort of vague and brutal 
astonishment, and feeling he must say something, and 
not knowing well what, he said — 

“Well, ’ere’s to your good health!’’ and he took a 
long pull at the jug. “Where did you get this?’’ 

“In Durham street, at the ‘Angel.’ ’’ 

“I thought as much; they don’t sell stuff like this at 
the ‘Rose and Crown.’ Well, much obliged to yer. I 
shall enjoy my bit of steak now ; and I see a tater in 
the cinders. How are you getting on, old woman — is 
it nearly done? Yer know I don’t like all the goodness 
burnt out of it. ’ ’ 

“It isn’t quite done yet, Jim; a few minutes 
more ’ ’ 

Jim sniffed in eager anticipation, and then addressed 
himself to Esther. 

“Well, they seem to do yer pretty well down there. 
My word, what a toff yer are ! Quite a lady. . . . 

There’s nothing like service for a girl ; I’ve always said 
so. Eh, Jenny, wouldn’t yer like to go into service, 
like yer sister? Looks better, don’t it, than making 
toy dogs at three-and-sixpence the gross?’’ 

“I should just think it was. I wish I could. As 
soon as Maggie can take my place, I mean to try.’’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


133 


“It was the young lady of the 'ouse that gave ’er 
that nice dress,” said Julia. “My eye! she must have 
been a favourite. ’ ' 

At that moment Mrs. Saunders picked the steak from 
the gridiron, and putting it on a nice hot plate she 
carried it in her apron to Jim, saying, “Mind yer 
'ands, it is burning ’ot.” 

Jim fed in hungry silence, the children watching, 
regretting that none of them ever had suppers like 
that. He didn’t speak until he had put away the 
better part of the steak; then, after taking a long 
pull at the jug of beer, he said — 

“I ’aven’t enjoyed a bit of food like that this many a 
day ; I was that beat when I came in, and it does do 
one good to put a piece of honest meat into one’s 
stomach after a ’ard day’s work!” 

Then, prompted by a sudden thought, he compli- 
mented Esther on her looks, and then, with increasing 
interest, inquired what kind of people she was staying 
with. But Esther was in no humour for conversation, 
and answered his questions briefly without entering 
into details. Her reserve only increased his curiosity, 
which fired up at the first mention of the race-horses. 

‘ ‘ I scarcely know much about them. I only used to 
see them passing through the yard as they went to 
exercise on the downs. There was always a lot of talk 
about them in the servants' hall, but I didn’t notice it. 
They were a great trouble to Mrs. Barfield — I told 
you, mother, that she was one of ourselves, didn’t I?” 

A look of contempt passed over Jim’s face, and he 
said — 

“We’ve quite enough talk ’ere about the Brethren; 
give them a rest. What about the ’orses? Did 


134 


ESTHER WATERS 


they win any races? Yer can’t ’ave missed ’earing 
that. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Silver Braid won the Stewards’ Cup.” 

“Silver Braid was one of your horses?’’ 

“Yes; Mr. Barfield won thousands and thousands, 
everyone in Shoreham won something, and a ball for 
the servants was given in the Gardens. ’ ’ 

“And you never thought of writing to me about it! 
I could have ’ad thirty to one off Bill Short. One 
pound ten to a bob ! And yer never thought it worth 
while to send me the tip. I’m blowed! Girls aren’t 
worth a damn. . . . Thirty to one off Bill Short — 

he’d have laid it. I remember seeing the price quoted 
in all the papers. Thirty to one taken and hoffered. 
If you had told me all yer knowed I might ’ave gone 
’alf a quid — fifteen pun to ’alf a quid! as much as I’d 
earn in three months slaving eight and ten hours a 
day, paint-pot on ’and about them blooming engines. 
Weil, there’s no use crying over what’s done — sich a 
chance won’t come again, but something else may. 
What are they going to do with the ’orse this autumn 
— did yer ’ear that?’’ 

“I think I ’eard that he was entered for the Cam- 
bridgeshire, but if I remember rightly, Mr. Leopold — 
that’s the butler, not his real name, but what we call 
him ’’ 

“Ah, yes; I know; after the Baron. Now what 
do ’e say? I reckon ’e knows. I should like to ’ave 
’alf-an-hour’s talk with your Mr. Leopold. What do ’e 
say? For what ’e says, unless I’m pretty well mis- 
taken, is worth listening to. A man wouldn’t be a- 
wasting ’is time in listening to ’im. What do ’e say?” 

“Mr. Leopold never says much. He’s the only one 


ESTHER WATERS 


135 


the Gaffer ever confides in. ’Tis said they are as 
thick as thieves, so they say. Mr. Leopold was his 
confidential servant when the Gaffer — that’s the squire 
— was a bachelor. ’ ’ 

Jim chuckled. “Yes, I think I know what kind of 
man your Mr. Leopold is like. But what did ’e say 
about the Cambridgeshire?” 

“He only laughed a little once, and said he didn’t 
think the ’orse would do much good in the autumn 
races — no, not races, that isn’t the word.” 

“Handicaps?” 

“Yes, that’s it. But there’s no relying on what 
Mr. Leopold says — he never says what he really 
means. But I ’eard William, that’s the footman ” 

“What are you stopping for? What did yer ’ear ’im 
say?” 

“That he intends to have something on next spring. ” 

‘ ‘ Did he say any race? Did he say the City and Sub. ?” 

“Yes, that was the race he mentioned.” 

‘ ‘ I thought that would be about the length and the 
breadth of it,” Jim said, as he took up his knife and 
fork. There was only a small portion of the beef- 
steak left, and this he ate gluttonously, and, finishing 
the last remaining beer, he leaned back in the happi- 
ness of repletion. He crammed tobacco into a dirty 
clay, with a dirtier finger-nail, and said — 

“I’d be uncommon glad to ’ear how he is getting on. 
When are you going back? Up for the day only?” 

Esther did not answer, and Jim looked inquiringly 
as he reached across the table for the matches. The 
decisive moment had arrived, and Mrs. Saunders 
said — 

“Esther ain’t a-going back; leastways ” 


136 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Not going back! You don't mean that she ain’t 
contented in her situation — that she ’as ’’ 

“Esther ain’t going back no more,” Mrs. Saunders 
answered, incautiously. “Look ee ’ere, Jim ’’ 

“Out with it, old woman — no ’umbug! What is it 
all about? Ain’t going back to ’er sitooation, and 
where she ’as been treated like that — ^just look at the 
duds she ’as got on.’’ 

The evening was darkening rapidly, and the firelight 
flickered over the back of the toy dogs piled up on the 
dresser. Jim had lit his pipe, and the acrid and warm 
odour of quickly-burning tobacco overpowered the 
smell of grease and the burnt skin of the baked potato, 
a fragment of which remained on the plate ; only the 
sickly flavour of drying paste was distinguishable in 
the reek of the short black clay which the man held 
firmly between his teeth. Esther sat by the fire, her 
hands crossed over her knees, no signs of emotion on 
her sullen, plump face. Mrs. Saunders stood on the 
other side of Esther, between her and the younger 
children, now quarrelling among themselves, and her 
face was full of fear as she watched her husband 
anxiously. 

“Now, then, old woman, blurt it out!” he said. 
“What is it? Can it be the girl ’as lost her sitooation 
— ^got the sack? Yes, I see that’s about the cut of it. 
Her beastly temper ! So they couldn’t put up with it 
in the country any more than I could mesel’. Well, 
it’s ’er own look-out ! If she can afford to chuck up a 
place like that, so much the better for ’er. Pity, 
though ; she might ’ave put me up to many a good 
thing.” 

“It ain’t that, Jim. The girl is in trouble.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


137 


“Wot do yer say? Esther in trouble? Well, that’s 
the best bit I’ve heard this long while. I always told 
ye that the religious ones were just the same as the 
others — a bit more hypocritical, that’s all. So she that 
wouldn’t ’ave nothing to do with such as was Mrs. 
Dunbar ’as got ’erself into trouble! Well I never! 
But ’tis just what I always suspected. The goody- 
goody sort are the worst. So she 'as got 'erself into 
trouble! Well, she’ll ’ave to get ’erself out of it.’’ 

“Now, Jim, dear, yer mustn’t be ’ard on ’er; she 
could tell a very different story if she wished it, but 
yer know what she is. There she sits like a block of 
marble, and won’t as much as say a word in ’er own 
defence. ’ ’ 

“But I don’t want ’er to speak. I don’t care, it’s 

nothing to me; I only laughed because ” 

“Jim, dear, it is something to all of us. What we 
thought was that you might let her stop ’ere till her 
time was come to go to the 'orspital. ’ ’ 

“Ah, that’s it, is it? That was the meaning of the 
’alf-pound of steak and the pint of porter, was it. I 
thought there was something hup. So she wants to 
stop ’ere, do she? As if there wasn’t enough already! 
Well, I be bio wed if she do ! A nice thing, too ; a girl 
can’t go away to service without coming back to her 
respectable ’ome in trouble — in trouble, she calls it. 
Now, I won’t ’ave it; there’s enough ’ere as it is, and 
another coming, worse luck. We wants no bastards 
’ere. . . . And a nice example, too, for the other 

children! No, I won’t ’ave it!’’ 

Jenny and Julia looked curiously at Esther, who sat 
quite still, her face showing no sign of emotion. Mrs. 
Saunders turned towards her, a pitying look on her 


138 


ESTHER WATERS 


face, saying clearly, “You see, my poor girl, how 
matters stand; I can do nothing.” 

The girl, although she did not raise her eyes, under- 
stood what was passing in her mother’s mind, for there 
was a grave deliberativeness in the manner in which 
she rose from the chair. 

But just as the daughter had guessed what was pass- 
ing in the mother’s mind, so did the mother guess 
what was passing in the daughter’s. Mrs. Saunders 
threw herself before Esther, saying, “Oh, no, Esther, 
wait a moment; ’e won’t be ’ard on ’ee. ’’ Then 
turning to her husband, “Yer don’t understand, Jim. 
It is only for a little time.” 

“No, I tell yer. No, I won’t 'ave it! There be too 
many ’ere as it is.’’ 

“Only a little while, Jim.’’ 

“No. And those who ain’t wanted ’ad better go at 
once — that’s my advice to them. The place is as full 
of us that we can ’ardly turn round as it is. No, I 
won’t ’ear of it!” 

“But, Jim, Esther is quite willing to pay her way; 
she’s saved a good little sum of money, and could 
afford to pay us ten shillings a week for board and the 
parlour. ’ ’ 

A perplexed look came on Jim’s face. 

“Why didn’t yer tell me that afore? Of course I 
don’t wish to be ’ard on the girl, as yer ’ave just heard 
me say. Ten shillings a week for her board and the 
parlour — that seems fair enough; and if it’s any con- 
venience to ’er to remain. I’m sure we’ll be glad to 
’ave ’er. I’ll say right glad, too. We was alwa5^s good 
friends, Esther, wasn’t we, though ye wasn’t one of 
my own?” So saying, Jim held out his hand. 


ESTHER WATERS 


139 


Esther tried to pass by her mother. “I don’t want 
to stop where I’m not wanted; I wants no one’s 
charity. Let me go, mother. ’ ’ 

“No, no, Esther. ’Aven’t yer ’eard what ’e says? 
Ye are my child if you ain’t ’is, and it would break my 
’eart, that it would, to see you go away among 
strangers. Yer place is among yer own people, who’ll 
look after you. ’ ’ 

“Now, then, Esther, why should there be ill feeling. 
I didn’t mean any ’arm. There’s a lot of us ’ere, and 
I’ve to think of the interests of my own. But for all 
that I should be main sorry to see yer take yer money 
among strangers, where you wouldn’t get no value for 
it. You’d better stop. I’m sorry for what I said. 
Ain’t that enough for yer?’’ 

“Jim, Jim, dear, don’t say no more; leave ’ertome. 
Esther, for my sake stop with us. You are in trouble, 
and it is right for you to stop with me. Jim ’as said 
no more than the truth. With all the best will in the 
world we couldn’t afford to keep yer for nothing, but 
since yer can pay yer way, it is yer duty to stop. 
Think, Esther, dear, think. Go and shake ’ands with 
’im, and I’ll go and make yer up a bed on the sofa. ’’ 

“There’s no bloody need for ’er to shake my ’and if 
she don’t like,’’ Jim replied, and he pulled doggedly 
at his pipe. 

Esther tried, but her fierce and heavy temper held 
her back. She couldn’t go to her father for reconcilia- 
tion, and the matter might have ended quite differ- 
ently, but suddenly, without another word, Jim put on 
his hat and went out to join “his chaps’’ who were 
waiting for him about the public-house, close to the 
cab-rank in the Vauxhall Bridge Road. The door 


140 


ESTHER WATERS 


was hardly closed behind him when the young chil- 
dren laughed and ran about joyously, and J enny and 
Julia went over to Esther and begged her to stop. 

“Of course she’ll stop,” said Mrs. Saunders. “And 
now, Esther, come along and help me to make you up 
a bed in the parlour. ’ ’ 


XIV. 


Esther was fast asleep next morning when Mrs. 
Saunders came into the parlour. Mrs. Saunders stood 
looking at her, and Esther turned suddenly on the sofa 
and said — 

“What time is it, mother?” 

“It’s gone six; but don’t you get up. You’re your 
own mistress whilst you’re here; you pays for what 
you ’as.” 

“I can’t afford them lazy habits. There’s plenty of 
work here, and I must help you with some of it. ” 

“Plenty of work here, that’s right enough. But 
why should you bother, and you nearly seven months 
gone? I daresay you feels that ’eavy that you never 
care to get out of your chair. But they says that them 
who works up to the last ’as the easiest time in the 
end. Not that I’ve found it so.” 

The conversation paused. Esther threw her legs 
over the side of the sofa, and still wrapped in the 
blanket, sat looking at her mother. 

“You can’t be over-comfortable on that bit of sofa,” 
said Mrs. Saunders. 

“Lor, I can manage right enough, if that was 
all.” 

“You is that cast down, Esther; you mustn’t give 
way. Things sometimes turns out better than one 
expects. ’ ’ 

“You never found they did, mother.” 

141 


142 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Perhaps I didn’t, but that says nothing for others. 
We must bear up as best we can.” 

One word led to another, and very soon Esther was 
telling her mother the whole tale of her misfortune — 
all about William, the sweepstakes, the ball at the 
Shoreham Gardens, the walks about the farm and hill- 
side. 

“Service is no place for a girl who wants to live as 
we used to live when father was alive — no service that 
I’ve seen. I see that plain enough. Mistress was one 
of the Brethren like ourselves, and she had to put up 
with betting and drinking and dancing, and never 
thought of the Lord. There was no standing out 
against it. They call you Creeping Jesus if you say 
your prayers, and you can’t say them with a girl 
laughing or singing behind your back, so you think 
you’ll say them to yourself in bed, but sleep comes 
sooner than you expect, and so you slips out of the 
habit. Then the drinking. We was brought up tee- 
total, but they’re always pressing it upon you, and to 
please him I said I would drink the ’orse’s ’ealth. 
That’s how it began. . . . You don’t know what 

it is, mother; you only knew God-fearing men until 
you married him. We aren’t all good like you, 
mother. But I thought no harm, indeed I didn’t.’’ 

“A girl can’t know what a man is thinking of, and 
we takes the worst for the best.’’ 

“I don’t say that I was altogether blameless, 
but — “ 

“You didn’t know he was that bad.” 

Esther hesitated. 

“I knew he was like other men. But he told me — 
he promised me he’d marry me.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


143 


Mrs. Saunders did not answer, and Esther said, 
“You don’t believe I’m speaking the truth.” 

“Yes, I do, dearie. I was only thinking. You’re 
my daughter; no mother had a better daughter. 
There never was a better girl in this world. ’ ’ 

“I was telling you, mother ” 

“But I don’t want no telling that my Esther ain’t a 
bad girl.” 

Mrs. Saunders sat nodding her head, a sweet, 
uncritical mother; and Esther understood how unsel- 
fishly her mother loved her, and how simply she 
thought of how she might help her in her trouble. 
Neither spoke, and Esther continued dressing. 

“You ’aven’t told me what you think of your room. 
It looks pretty, don’t you think? I keeps it as nice as 
I can. Jenny hung up them pictures. They livens it 
up a bit, ’ ’ she said, pointing to the coloured supple- 
ments, from the illustrated papers, on the wall. “The 
china shepherd and shepherdess, you know ; they was 
at Barnstaple.” 

When Esther was dressed, she and Mrs. Saunders 
knelt down and said a prayer together. Then Esther 
said she would make up her room, and when that was 
done she insisted on helping her mother with the’ 
housework. 

In the afternoon she sat with her sisters, helping 
them with their dogs, folding the paper into the 
moulds, pasting it down, or cutting the skins into the 
requisite sizes. About five, when the children had 
had their tea, she and her mother went for a short 
walk. Very often they strolled through Victoria Sta- 
tion, amused by the bustle of the traffic, or maybe 
they wandered down the Buckingham Palace Road, 


144 


ESTHER WATERS 


attracted by the shops. And there was a sad pleasure 
in these walks. The elder woman had borne years of 
exceeding trouble, and felt her strength failing under 
her burdens, which instead of lightening were increas- 
ing; the younger woman was full of nervous appre- 
hension for the future and grief for the past. But they 
loved each other deeply. Esther threw herself in the 
way to protect her mother, whether at a dangerous 
crossing or from the heedlessness of the crowd at a 
corner, and often a passer-by turned his head and 
looked after them, attracted by the* solicitude which 
the younger woman showed for the elder. In those 
walks very little was said. They walked in silence, 
slipping now and then into occasional speech, and here 
and there a casual allusion or a broken sentence would 
indicate what was passing in their minds. 

One day some flannel and shirts in a window caught 
Mrs. Saunders’ eye, and she said — 

“It is time, Esther, you thought about your baby 
clothes. One must be prepared ; one never knows if 
one will go one’s full time. ’ ’ 

The words came upon Esther with something of a 
shock, helping her to realise the imminence of her 
trouble. 

“You must have something by you, dear; one never 
knows how it is going to turn out ; even I who have 
been through it do feel that nervous. I looks round 
the kitchen when I’m taken with the pains, and I says, 

‘ I may never see this room again. ’ ’ ’ 

The words were said in an undertone to Esther, and 
the shopworn an turned to get down the ready-made 
things which Mrs. Saunders had asked to see. 

“Here,” said the shopwoman, “is the gown, long- 


ESTHER WATERS 


145 


cloth, one-and-sixpence ; here is the flannel, one-and- 
sixpence ; and here is the little shirt, sixpence. ’ ’ 

“You must have these to go on with, dear, and if 
the baby lives you’ll want another set.” 

“Oh, mother, of course he’ll live ; why shouldn’t he?” 

Even the shopwoman smiled, and Mrs. Saunders, 
addressing the shopwoman, said — 

“Them that knows nothing about it is alius full of 
’ope.” 

The shopwoman raised her eyes, sighed, and 
inquired sympathetically if this was the young lady’s 
first confinement. 

Mrs. Saunders nodded and sighed, and then the 
shopwoman asked Mrs. Saunders if she required any 
baby clothes. Mrs. Saunders said she had all she 
required. The parcel was made up, and they were 
preparing to leave, when Esther said — 

“I may as well buy the material and make another 
set — it will give me something to do in the afternoons. 
I think I should like to make them.” 

“We have some first-rate longcloth at sixpence-half- 
penny a yard.” 

“You might take three yards, Esther; if anything 
should happen to yer bairn it will always come in use- 
ful. And you had better take three yards of flannel. 
How much is yer flannel?” 

“We have some excellent flannel,” said the woman, 
lifting down a long, heavy package in dull yellow 
paper; “this is ten-pence a yard. You will want a finer 
longcloth for the little shirts.” 

And every afternoon Esther sat in the parlour by 
the window, seeing, when she raised her eyes from the 
sewing, the low brick street full of children, and hear- 


146 


ESTHER WATERS 


ing the working women calling from the open doors or 
windows ; and as she worked at the baby clothes, never 
perhaps to be worn, her heart sank at the long pros- 
pect that awaited her, the end of which she could not 
see, for it seemed to reach to the very end of her life. 
In these hours she realised in some measure the 
duties that life held in store, and it seemed to her that 
they exceeded her strength. Never would she be able 
to bring him up — ^he would have no one to look to but 
her. She never imagined other than that her child 
would be a boy. The task was clearly more than she 
could perform, and in despair she thought it would be 
better for it to die. What would happen if she 
remained out of a situation? Her father would not 
have her at home, that she knew well enough. What 
should she do, and the life of another depending on 
her? She would never see William again — that was 
certain. He had married a lady, and, were they 
to meet, he would not look at her. Her temper 
grew hot, and the memory of the injustice of which 
she had been a victim pressed upon her. But when 
vain anger passed away she thought of her baby, 
anticipating the joy she would experience when he 
held out tiny hands to her, and that, too, which she 
would feel when he laid an innocent cheek to hers; 
and her dream persisting, she saw him learning a 
trade, going to work in the morning and coming back 
to her in the evening, proud in the accomplishment of 
something done, of good money honestly earned. 

She thought a great deal, too, of her poor mother, 
who was looking strangely weak and poorly, and whose 
condition was rendered worse by her nervous fears 
that she would not get through this confinement. For 


ESTHER WATERS 


147 


the doctor had told Mrs. Saunders that the next time 
it might go hard with her ; and in this house, her hus- 
band growing more reckless and drunken, it was alto- 
gether a bad look-out, and she might die for want of a 
little nourishment or a little care. Unfortunately they 
would both be down at the same time, and it was 
almost impossible that Esther should be well in 
time to look after her mother. That brute! It was 
wrong to think of her father so, but he seemed to be 
without mercy for any of them. He had come in yes- 
terday half -boozed, having kept back part of his money 
— ^he had come in tramping and hiccuping. 

“Now, then, old girl, out with it! I must have a 
few halfpence; my chaps is waiting for me, and I 
can’t be looking down their mouths with nothing in 
my pockets.” 

“I only have a few halfpence to get the children a 
bit of dinner ; if I give them to you they’ll have noth- 
ing to eat.” 

“Oh, the children can eat anything; I want beer. 
If yer ’aven’t money, make it.” 

Mrs. Saunders said that if he had any spare clothes 
she would take them round the corner. He only 
answered — 

“Well, if I ’aven’t a spare waistcoat left just take 
some of yer own things. I tell yer I want beer, and I 
mean to have some. ’ ’ 

Then, with his fist raised, he came at his poor wife, 
ordering her to take one of the sheets from the bed and 
“make money,” and would have struck her if 
Esther had not come between them and, with her 
hand in her pocket, said, “Be quiet, father; I’ll give 
you the money you want.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


148 

She had done the same before, and, if needs be, she 
would do so again. She could not see her mother 
struck, perhaps killed by that brute ; her first duty was 
to save her mother, but these constant demands on her 
little savings filled her with terror. She would want 
every penny; the ten shillings he had already had 
from her might be the very sum required to put her on 
her feet again, and send her in search of a situation 
where she would be able to earn money for the boy. 
But if this extortion continued she did not know what 
she would do, and that night she prayed that God 
might not delay the birth of her child. 


XV. 


“I wish, mother, you was going to the hospital with 
me; it would save a lot of expense and you’d be better 
cared for.” 

“I’d like to be with you, dearie, but I can’t leave 
my ’ome, all these young children about and no one to 
give an order. I must stop where I am. But I’ve 
been intending to tell you — it is time that you was 
thinking about yer letter.” 

“What letter, mother?” 

“They don’t take you without a letter from one of 
the subscribers. If I was you, now that the weather 
is fine and you have strength for the walk, I’d go up to 
Queen Charlotte’s. It is up the Edgware Road way, 
I think. What do you think about to-morrow?” 

“To-morrow’s Sunday.” 

“That makes no matter, them horspitals is open.” 

“I’ll go to-morrow when we have washed up.” 

On Friday Esther had had to give her father more 
money for drink. She gave him two shillings, and 
that made a sovereign that he had had from her. On 
Saturday night he had been brought home helplessly 
drunk long after midnight, and next morning one of 
the girls had to fetch him a drop of something to pull 
him together. He had lain in bed until dinner-time, 
swearing he would brain anyone who made the least 
noise. Even the Sunday dinner, a nice beef-steak 
pudding, hardly tempted him, and he left the table 

149 


ESTHER WATERS 


150 

saying that if he could find Tom Carter they would 
take a penny boat and go for a blow on the river. 
The whole family waited for his departure. But he 
lingered, talked inconsequently, and several times Mrs. 
Saunders and the children gave up hope. Esther sat 
without a word. He called her a sulky brute, and, 
snatching up his hat, left the house. The moment 
he was gone the children began to chatter like birds. 
Esther put on her hat and jacket. 

“I’m going, mother.” 

“Well, take care of yourself. Good luck to you. ” 

Esther smiled sadly. But the beautiful weather 
melted on her lips, her lungs swelled with the warm 
air, and she noticed the sparrow that flew across the 
cab rank, and saw the black dot pass down a mews and 
disappear under the eaves. It was a warm day in the 
middle of April; a mist of green had begun in the 
branches of the elms of the Green Park ; and in Park 
Lane, in all the balconies and gardens, wherever 
nature could find roothold, a spray of gentle green met 
the eye. There was music, too, in the air, the sound 
of fifes and drums, and all along the roadway as far as 
she could see the rapid movement of assembling 
crowds. A procession with banners was turning the 
corner of the Edgware Road, and the policeman had 
stopped the trafiic to allow it to pass. The principal 
banner blew out blue and gold in the wind, and the 
men that bore the poles walked with strained backs 
under the weight ; the music changed, opinions about 
the objects of the demonstration were exchanged, and 
it was some time before Esther could gain the police- 
man’s attention. At last the conductor rang his bell, 
the omnibus started, and gathering courage she asked 


ESTHER WATERS 


151 

the way. It seemed to her that every one was notic- 
ing her, and fearing to be overheard she spoke so low 
that the policeman understood her to say Charlotte 
Street. At that moment an omnibus drew up close 
beside them. 

“Charlotte Street, Charlotte Street,” said the police- 
man, “there’s Charlotte Street, Bloomsbury.” Before 
Esther could answer he had turned to the conductor. 
“You don’t know any Charlotte Street about here, do 
you?” 

“No, I don’t. But can’t yer see that it ain’t no 
Charlotte Street she wants, but Queen Charlotte’s 
Hospital? And ye’d better lose no time in directing 
her.” 

A roar of coarse laughter greeted this pleasantry, 
and burning with shame she hurried down the Edg- 
ware Road. But she had not gone far before she had 
to ask again, and she scanned the passers-by seeking 
some respectable woman, or in default an innocent 
child. 

She came at last to an ugly desert place. There was 
the hospital, square, forbidding; and opposite a tall, 
lean building with long grey columns. Esther rang, 
and the great door, some fifteen feet high, was opened 
by a small boy. 

“I want to see the secretary.” 

“Will you come this way?” 

She was shown into a waiting-room, and while wait- 
ing she looked at the religious prints on the walls. A 
lad of fifteen or sixteen came in. He said — 

“You want to see the secretary?” 

“Yes.” 

“But I’m afraid you can’t see him; he’s out.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


152 

“I have come a long way; is there no one else I can 
see?” 

“Yes, you can see me — Pm his clerk. Have you 
come to be confined?” 

Esther answered that she had. 

“But,” said the boy, “you are not in labour; we 
never take anyone in before.” 

“I do not expect to be confined for another month. 

I came to make arrangements.” 

“You’ve got a letter?” 

“No.” 

“Then you must get a letter from one of the sub- 
scribers. ’ ’ 

“But I do not know any.” 

“You can have a book of their names and addresses. ’ ’ 

“But I know no one. ’ ’ 

“You needn’t know them. You can go and call. 
Take those that live nearest — that’s the way it is 
done.” 

“Then will you give me the book?” 

“I’ll go and get one.” 

The boy returned a moment after with a small book, 
for which he demanded a shilling. Since she had 
come to London her hand had never been out of her 
pocket. She had her money with her; she did not 
dare leave it at home on account of her father. The 
clerk looked out the addresses for her and she tried to 
remember them — two were in Cumberland Place, 
another was in Bryanstone Square. In Cumberland 
Place she was received by an elderly lady who said she 
did not wish to judge anyone, but it was her invari- 
able practice to give letters only to married women. 
There was a delicate smell of perfume in the room ; the 


ESTHER WATERS 


153 


lady stirred the fire and lay back in her armchair. 
Once or twice Esther tried to withdraw, but the lady, 
although unswervingly faithful to her principles, 
seemed not indifferent to Esther’s story, and asked her 
many questions. 

“I don’t see what interest all that can be to you, as 
you ain’t going to give me a letter, ’ ’ Esther answered. 

The next house she called at the lady was not at 
home, but she was expected back presently, and the 
maid servant asked her to take a seat in the hall. But 
when Esther refused information about her troubles 
she was called a stuck-up thing who deserved all she 
got, and was told there was no use her waiting. 
At the next place she was received by a footman who 
insisted on her communicating her business to him. 
Then he said he would see if his master was in. He 
wasn’t in ; he must have just gone out. The best time 
to find him was before half-past ten in the morning. 

“He’ll be sure to do all he can for you — ^he always 
do for the good-looking ones. How did it all happen?” 

“What business is that of yours? I don’t ask your 
business.” 

“Well, you needn’t turn that rusty.” 

At that moment the master entered. He asked 
Esther to come into his study. He was a tall, young- 
ish-looking man of three or four-and-thirty, with bright 
eyes and hair, and there was in his voice and manner 
a kindness that impressed Esther. She wished, how- 
ever, that she had seen his mother instead of him, for 
she was more than ever ashamed of her condition. He 
seemed genuinely sorry for her, and regretted that he 
had given all his tickets away. Then a thought struck 
him, and he wrote a letter to one of his friends, a 


154 


ESTHER WATERS 


banker in Lincoln’s Inn Fields. This gentleman, he 
said, was a large subscriber to the hospital, and would 
certainly give her the letter she required. He hoped 
that Esther would get through her trouble all right. 

The visit brought a little comfort into the girl’s 
heart; and thinking of his kind eyes she walked 
slowly, inquiring out her way until she got back to the 
Marble Arch, and stood looking down the long Bays- 
water Road. The lamps were beginning in the light, 
and the tall houses towered above the sunset. Esther 
watched the spectral city, and some sensation of the 
poetry of the hour must have stolen into her heart, for 
she turned into the Park, choosing to walk there. 
Upon its dim green grey the scattered crowds were 
like strips of black tape. Here and there by the rail- 
ings the tape had been wound up in a black ball, and 
the peg was some democratic orator, promising poor 
human nature* unconditional deliverance from evil. 
Further on were heard sounds from a harmonium, and 
hymns were being sung, and in each doubting face 
there was something of the perplexing, haunting look 
which the city wore. 

A chill wind was blowing. Winter had returned 
with the night, but the instinct of spring continued in 
the branches. The deep, sweet scent of the hyacinth 
floated along the railings, and the lovers that sat with 
their arms about each other on every seat were of 
Esther’s own class. She would have liked to have 
called them round her and told them her miserable 
story, so that they might profit by her experience. 


XVI. 


No more than three weeks now remained between 
her and the dreaded day. She had hoped to spend 
them with her mother, who was timorous and despond- 
ing, and stood in need of consolation. But this was 
not to be; her father’s drunkenness continued, and 
daily he became more extortionate in his demands for 
money. Esther had not six pounds left, and she felt 
that she must leave. It had come to this, that she 
doubted if she were to stay on that the clothes on her 
back might not be taken from her. Mrs. Saunders 
was of the same opinion, and she urged Esther to go. 
But scruples restrained her. 

“I can’t bring myself to leave you, mother; some- 
thing tells me I should stay with you. It is dreadful 
to be parted from you. I wish you was coming to the 
hospital; you’d be far safer there than at home.” 

‘‘I know that, dearie; but where’s the good in talk- 
ing about it? It only makes it harder to bear. You 
know I can’t leave. It is terrible hard, as you says.” 
Mrs. Saunders held her apron to her eyes and cried. 
“You have always been a good girl, never a better — 
my one consolation since your poor father died. ’ ’ 
“Don’t cry, mother,” said Esther; “the Lord will 
watch over us, and we shall both pray for each other. 
In about a month, dear, we shall be both quite well, 
and you’ll bless my baby, and I shall think of the time 
when I shall put him into your arms. ’ ’ 

155 


156 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I hope so, Esther; I hope so, but I am full of fears. 
I’m sore afraid that we shall never see one another 
again — leastways on this earth.” 

“Oh, mother, dear, yer mustn’t talk like that; you’ll 
break my heart, that you will.” 

The cab that took Esther to her lodging cost half- 
a-crown, and this waste of money frightened her thrifty 
nature, inherited through centuries of working folk. 
The waste, however, had ceased at last, and it was 
none too soon, she thought, as she sat in the room she 
had taken near the hospital, in a little eight-roomed 
house, kept by an old woman whose son was a brick- 
layer. 

It was at the end of the week, one afternoon, as 
Esther was sitting alone in her room, that there came 
within her a great and sudden shock — ^life seemed to 
be slipping from her, and she sat for some minutes 
quite unable to move. She knew that her time had 
come, and when the pain ceased she went downstairs 
to consult Mrs. Jones. 

“Hadn’t I better go to the hospital now, Mrs. 
Jones?” 

“Not just yet, my dear; them is but the first labour 
pains; plenty of time to think of the hospital; we 
shall see how you are in a couple of hours. ’ ’ 

“Will it last so long as that?” 

“You’ll be lucky if you get it over before midnight. 
I have been down for longer than that. ” 

“Do you mind my stopping in the kitchen with you? 
I feel frightened when I’m alone.” 

“No, I’ll be glad of your company. I’ll get you 
some tea presently.” 

“I could not touch anything. Oh, this is dreadful!” 


ESTHER WATERS 


157 


she exclaimed, and she walked to and fro holding her 
sides, balancing herself dolefully. Often Mrs. Jones 
stopped in her work about the range and said, looking 
at her, “I know what it is, I have been through it 
many a time — we all must — it is our earthly lot.” 
About seven o’clock Esther was clinging to the table, 
and with pain so vivid on her face that Mrs. Jones laid 
aside the sausages she was cooking and approached the 
suffering girl. 

“What! is it so bad as all that?” 

“Oh,” she said, “I think I’m dying, I cannot stand 
^P; ^ive me a chair, give me a chair!” and she sank 
down upon it, leaning across the table, her face and 
neck bathed in a cold sweat. 

“John will have to get his supper himself; I’ll leave 
these sausages on the hob, and run upstairs and put on 
my bonnet. The things you intend to bring with you, 
the baby clothes, are made up in a bundle, aren’t 
they?” 

“Yes, yes.” 

Little Mrs. Jones came running down; she threw a 
shawl over Esther, and it was astonishing what sup- 
port she lent to the suffering girl, calling on her the 
whole time to lean on her and not to be afraid. “Now 
then, dear, you must keep your heart up, we have only 
a few yards further to go.” 

“You are too good, you are too kind,” Esther said, 
and she leaned against the wall, and Mrs. Jones rang 
the bell. 

“Keep up your spirits; to-morrow it will be all over. 
I will come round and see how you are.” 

The door opened. The porter rang the bell, and a 
sister came running down. 


ESTHER WATERS 


158 

“Come, come, take my arm,” she said, “and 
breathe hard as you are ascending the stairs. Come 
along, you mustn’t loiter.” 

On the second landing a door was thrown open, and 
she found herself in a room full of people, eight or 
nine young men and women. 

“What! in there? and all those people?” said Esther. 

“Of course; those are the midwives and the stu- 
dents. ’ ’ 

She saw that the screams, she had heard in the pass- 
age came from a bed on the left-hand side. A woman 
lay there huddled up. In the midst of her terror 
Esther was taken behind a screen by the sister who had 
brought her upstairs and quickly undressed. She was 
clothed in a chemise a great deal too big for her, and 
a jacket which was also many sizes too large. She 
remembered hearing the sister say so at the time. Both 
windows were wide open, and as she walked across 
the room she noticed the basins on the floor, the lamp 
on the round table, and the glint of steel instruments. 

The students and the nurses were behind her; she 
knew they were eating sweets, for she heard a young 
man ask the young women if they would have any 
more fondants. Their chatter and laughter jarred on 
her nerves ; but at that moment her pains began again, 
and she saw the young man whom she had seen hand- 
ing the sweets approaching her bedside. 

“Oh, no, not him, not him!” she cried to the nurse. 
“Not him, not him! he is too young! Do not let him 
come near me!” 

They laughed loudly, and she buried her head in the 
pillow, overcome with pain and shame ; and when she 
felt him by her she tried to rise from the bed. 


ESTHER WATERS 


159 


“Let me go! take me away! Oh, you are all 
beasts!” 

“Come, come, no nonsense!” said the nurse; “you 
can’t have what you like; they are here to learn;” and 
when he had tried the pains she heard the midwife 
say that it wasn’t necessary to send for the doctor. 
Another said that it would be all over in about three 
hours’ time. “An easy confinement, I should say. 
The other will be more interesting. . . .” Then 

they talked of the plays they had seen, and those they 
wished to see. A discussion arose regarding the 
merits of a shilling novel which every one was reading, 
and then Esther heard a stampede of nurses, midwives, 
and students in the direction of the window. A Ger- 
man band had come into the street. 

“Is that the way to leave your patient, sister?” said 
the student who sat by Esther’s bed, a good-looking 
boy with a fair, plump face. Esther looked into his 
clear blue, girl-like eyes, wondered, and turned away 
for shame. 

The sister stopped her imitation of a popular come- 
dian, and said, “Oh, she’s all right; if they were all 
like her there’d be very little use our coming here. ” 

“Unfortunately that’s just what they are,” said 
another student, a stout fellow with a pointed red 
beard, the ends of which caught the light. Esther’s 
eyes often went to those stubble ends, and she hated 
him for his loud voice and jocularity. One of the 
midwives, a woman with a long nose and small grey 
eyes, seemed to mock her, and Esther hoped that this 
woman would not come near her. She felt that she 
could not bear her touch. There was something 
sinister in her face, and Esther was glad when her 


i6o 


ESTHER WATERS 


favourite, a little blonde woman with wavy flaxen hair, 
came and asked her if she felt better. She looked a 
little like the young student who still sat by her bed- 
side, and Esther wondered if they were brother and 
sister, and then she thought that they were sweet- 
hearts. 

Soon after a bell rang, and the students went down 
to supper, the nurse in charge promising to warn them 
if any change should take place. The last pains had 
so thoroughly exhausted her that she had fallen into a 
doze. But she could hear the chatter of the nurses so 
clearly that she did not believe herself asleep. And 
in this film of sleep reality was distorted, and the 
unsuccessful operation which the nurses were discuss- 
ing Esther understood to be a conspiracy against her 
life. She awoke, listened, and gradually sense of the 
truth returned to her. She was in the hospital. 

. . . The nurses were talking of some one who had 

died last week. . . . That poor woman in the 

other bed seemed to suffer dreadfully. Would she live 
through it? Would she herself live to see the morn- 
ing? How long the time, how fearful the place! If 
the nurses would only stop talking. . . . The 

pains would soon begin again. ... It was awful 
to lie listening, waiting. The windows were open, and 
the mocking gaiety of the street was borne in on the 
night wind. Then there came a trampling of feet and 
sound of voices in the passage — the students and 
nurses were coming up from supper ; and at the same 
moment the pains began to creep up from her knees. 
One of the young men said that her time had not 
come. The woman with the sinister look that Esther 
dreaded, held a contrary opinion. The point was 


ESTHER WATERS 


i6i 


argued, and, interested in the question, the crowd 
came from the window and collected round the dis- 
putants. The young man expounded much medical 
and anatomical knowledge; the nurses listened with 
the usual deference of women. 

Suddenly the discussion was interrupted by a scream 
from Esther; it seemed to her that she was being torn 
asunder, that life was going from her. The nurse ran 
to her side, a look of triumph came upon her face, and 
she said, “Now we shall see who’s right,’’ and forth- 
with ran for the doctor. He came running up the 
stairs ; immediately silence and scientific collectedness 
gathered round Esther, and after a brief examination 
he said, in a low whisper — 

“I’m afraid this will not be as easy a case as one 
might hAve imagined. I shall administer chloroform. ’ ’ 

He placed a small wire case over her mouth and 
nose, and the sickly odour which she breathed from 
the cotton wool filled her brain with nausea ; it seemed 
to choke her, and then life faded, and at every inhala- 
tion she expected to lose sight of the circle of faces. 

When she opened her eyes the doctors and nurses 
were still standing round her, but there was no longer 
any expression of eager interest on their faces. She 
wondered at this change, and then out of the silence 
there came a tiny cry. 

“What’s that?’’ Esther asked. 

“That’s your baby.’’ 

“My baby! Let me see it; is it a boy or a girl?” 

“It is a boy; it will be given to you when we get you 
out of the labour ward. ’ ’ 

“I knew it would be a boy.’’ Then a scream of 


i 62 


ESTHER WATERS 


pain rent the stillness of the room. “Is that the same 
woman who was here when I first came in? Hasn’t 
she been confined yet?” 

“No, and I don’t think she will be till midday; she’s 
very bad.’’ 

The door was thrown open, and Esther was wheeled 
into the passage. She was like a convalescent plant 
trying to lift its leaves to the strengthening light, but 
within this twilight of nature the thought of another 
life, now in the world, grew momentarily more distinct. 
“Where is my boy?’’ she said; “give him to me.’’ 

The nurse entered, and answered, “Here.’’ A 
pulp of red flesh rolled up in flannel was laid along- 
side of her. Its eyes were open ; it looked at her, and 
her flesh filled with a sense of happiness so deep 
and so intense that she was like one enchanted When 
she took the child in her arms she thought she must 
die of happiness. She did not hear the nurse speak, 
nor did she understand her when she took the , babe 
from her arms and laid it alongside on the pillow, say- 
ing, “You must let the little thing sleep, you must try 
to sleep yourself. ’ ’ 

Her personal self seemed entirely withdrawn; she 
existed like an atmosphere about the babe, an imper- 
sonal emanation of love. She lay absorbed in this life 
of her life, this flesh of her flesh, unconscious of her- 
self as a sponge in warm sea- water. She touched this 
pulp of life, and was thrilled, and once more her 
senses swooned with love; it was still there. She re- 
membered that the nurse had said it was a boy. She 
must see her boy, and her hands, working as in a 
dream, unwound him, and, delirious with love, she 
gazed until he awoke and cried. She tried to hush 


ESTHER WATERS 


163 

him and to enfold him, but her strength failed, she 
could not help him, and fear came lest he should die. 
She strove to reach her hands to him, but all strength 
had gone from her, and his cries sounded hollow in 
her weak brain. Then the nurse came and said — 
“See what you have done, the poor child is all 
uncovered ; no wonder he is crying. I will wrap him 
up, and you must not interfere with him again. ’ ’ But 
as soon as]the nurse turned away Esther had her child 
back in her arms. She did not sleep. She could not 
sleep for thinking of him, and the long night passed in 
adoration. 


XVII. 


She was happy, her babe lay beside her. All her 
joints were loosened, and the long hospital days passed 
in gentle weariness. Lady visitors came and asked 
questions. Esther said that’ her father and mother 
lived in the Vauxhall Bridge Road, and she admitted 
that she had saved four pounds. There were two beds 
in this ward, and the woman who occupied the second 
bed declared herself to be destitute, without home, or 
money, or friends. She secured all sympathy and 
promises of help, and Esther was looked upon as a 
person who did not need assistance and ought to have 
known better. They received visits from a clergy- 
man. He spoke to Esther of God’s goodness and wis- 
dom, but his exhortations seemed a little remote, and 
Esther was sad and ashamed that she was not more 
deeply stirred. Had it been her own people who came 
and knelt about her bed, lifting their voices in the 
plain prayers she was accustomed to, it might have 
been different ; but this well-to-do^clergyman, with his 
sophisticated speech, seemed foreign to her, and failed 
to draw her thoughts from the sleeping child. 

The ninth day passed, but Esther recovered slowly, 
and it was decided that she should not leave the hos- 
pital before the end of the third week. She knew that 
when she crossed the threshold of the hospital there 
would be no more peace for her; and she was fright- 
ened as she listened to the never-ending rumble of the 

164 


ESTHER WATERS 


165 

street. She spent whole hours thinking of her dear 
mother, and longing for some news from home, and 
her face brightened when she was told that her sister 
had come to see her. 

“Jenny, what has happened; is mother very bad?” 

“Mother is dead, that’s what I’ve come to tell you; 
I’d have come before, but ” 

“Mother dead! Oh, no, Jenny! Oh, Jenny, not my 
poor mother!” 

“Yes, Esther. I knew it would cut you up dreadful ; 
we was all very sorry, but she’s dead. ^ She’s dead a 
long time now, I was just a-going to tell you ” 

“Jenny, what do you mean? Dead a long time?” 

“Well, she was buried more than a week ago. We 
were so sorry you couldn’t be at the funeral. We 
was all there, and had crape on our dresses and father 
had crape on his ’at. We all cried, especially in 
church and about the grave, and when the sexton 
threw in the soil it sounded that hollow it made me 
sob. Julia, she lost her ’ead and asked to be buried 
with mother, and I had to lead her away ; and then we 
went ’ome to dinner. ” 

“Oh, Jenny, our poor mother gone from us for ever! 
How did she die? Tell me, was it a peaceful death? 
Did she suffer?” 

“There ain’t much to tell. Mother was taken bad 
almost immediately after you was with us the last 
time. Mother was that bad all the day long and all 
night too we could ’ardly stop in the ’ouse ; it gave one 
just the creeps to listen to her crying and moan 
ing.” 

“And then?” 

“Why, then the baby was born. It was dead, and 


i66 


ESTHER WATERS 


mother died of weakness ; prostration the doctor called 
it.” 

Esther hid her face in the pillow. Jenny waited, 
and an anxious look of self began to appear on the 
vulgar London street face. 

“Look ’ere, Esther, you can cry when I’ve gone; 
I’ve a deal to say to yer and time is short.” 

“Oh, Jenny, don’t speak like that! Father, was he 
kind to mother?” 

‘ ‘ I dunno that he thought much about it ; he spent 
’alf ’is time in the public, ’e did. He said he couldn’t 
abide the ’ouse with a woman a-screaming like that. 
One of the neighbours came in to look after mother, 
and at last she had the doctor. ’ ’ Esther looked at her 
sister through streaming tears, and the woman in the 
other bed alluded to the folly of poor women being 
confined “in their own ’omes — in a ’ome where there 
is a drunken ’usband, and most ’omes is like that now- 
adays. ” 

At that moment Esther’s baby awoke crying for the 
breast. The little lips caught at the nipple, the wee 
hand pressed the white curve, and in a moment 
Esther’s face took that expression of holy solicitude 
which Raphael sublimated in the Virgin’s down ward- 
gazing eyes. Jenny watched the gluttonous lips, 
interested in the spectacle, and yet absorbed in what 
she had come to say to her sister. 

“Your baby do look ’ealthy.” 

“Yes, and he is too, not an ache or a pain. He’s as 
beautiful a boy as ever lived. But think of poor 
mother, Jenny, think of poor mother.” 

“I do think of her, Esther. But I can’t help seeing 
your baby. He’s like you, Esther. I can see a look 


ESTHER WATERS 


167 


of you in ’is eyes. But I don’t know that I should care 
to ’ave a baby meself — the expense comes very ’eavy 
on a poor girl. ’ ’ 

“Please God, my baby shall never want for anything 
as long as I can work for him. But, Jenny, my trouble 
will be a lesson to you. I hope you will always be a 
good girl, and never allow yourself to be led away ; 
you promise me?” 

“Yes, I promise. ” 

“A ’ome like ours, a drunken father, and now that 
poor mother is gone it will be worse than ever. 
Jenny, you are the eldest and must do your best to 
look after the younger ones, and as much as possible 
to keep father from the public-house. I shall be 
away; the moment I’m well enough I must look out 
for a place. ’ ’ 

“That’s just what I came to speak to you about. 
Father is going to Australia. He is that tired of Eng- 
land, and as he lost his situation on the railway he has 
made up his mind to emigrate. It is pretty well all 
arranged ; he has been to an agency and they say he’ll 
’ave to pay two pounds a ’ead, and that runs to a lot of 
money in a big family like ours. So I’m likely to get 
left, for father says that I’m old enough to look after 
myself. He’s willing to take me if I gets the money, 
not without. That’s what I came to tell yer about.” 

Esther understood that Jenny had come to ask for 
money. She could not give it, and lapsed into think- 
ing of this sudden loss of all her family. She did not 
know where Australia was ; she fancied that she had 
once heard that it took months to get there. But she 
knew that they were all going from her, they were 
going out on the sea in a great ship that would sail 


i68 


ESTHER WATERS 


and sail further and further away. She could see the 
ship from her bedside, at first strangely distinct, alive 
with hands and handkerchiefs ; she could distinguish all 
the children — ^Jenny, Julia, and little Ethel. She lost 
sight of their faces as the ship cleared the harbour. 
Soon after the ship was far away on the great round of 
waters, again a little while and all the streaming can- 
vas not larger than a gull’s wing, again a little while 
and the last speck on the horizon hesitated and disap- 
peared. 

“What are you crying about, Esther? I never saw 
yer cry before. It do seem that odd. ’ ’ 

“I’m so weak. Mother’s death has broken my heart, 
and now to know that I shall never see any one of you 
again.” 

“It do seem ’ard. We shall miss you sadly. But I 
was going to say that father can’t take me unless I 
finds two pounds. You won’t see me stranded, will 
you, Esther?’’ 

“I cannot give you the money, Jenny. Father has 
had too much of my money already; there’s ’ardly 
enough to see me through. I’ve only four pounds left. 
I cannot give you my child’s money; God knows how 
we shall live until I can get to work again. ’ ’ 

“You’re nearly well now. But if yer can’t help me, 
yer can’t. I don’t know what’s to be done. Father 
can’t take me if I don’t find the money.’’ 

“You say the agency wants two pounds for each per- 
son?” 

“Yes, that’s it.’’ 

“And I’ve four. We might both go if it weren’t for 
the baby ,but I don’t suppose they’d make any charge 
for a child on the breast.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


169 


“I dunno. There’s father; yer know what he is.” 

“That’s true. He don’t want me; I’m not one of 
his. But, Jenny, dear, it is terrible to be left all alone. 
Poor mother dead, and all of you going to Australia. 
I shall never see one of you again.” 

The conversation paused. Esther changed the baby 
from the left to the right breast, and Jenny tried to 
think what she had best say to induce her sister to 
give her the money she wanted. 

“If you don’t give me the money I shall be left; it 
is hard luck, that’s all, for there’s fine chances for a 
girl, they says, out in Australia. If I remain ’ere I 
dunno what will become of me.” 

“You had better look out for a situation. We shall 
see each other from time to time. It’s a pity you 
don’t know a bit of cooking, enough to take the place 
of kitchen-maid.” 

“I only know that dog-making, and I’ve ’ad enough 
of that.” 

“You can always get a situation as general servant 
in a lodging- ’ouse. ” 

“Service in a lodging- ’ouse! Not me. You know 
what that is. I’m surprised that you’d ask me.” 

“Well, what are yer thinking of doing?” 

“I was thinking of going on in the pantomime as one 
of the hextra ladies, if they’ll ’ave me.” 

“Oh, Jenny, you won’t do that, will you? A 
theatre is only sinfulness, as we ’ave always knowed.” 

“You know that I don’t ’old with all them preachy- 
preachy brethren says about the theatre.” 

“I can’t argue — I ’aven’t the strength, and it inter- 
feres with the milk.” And then, as if prompted by 
some association of ideas, Esther said, “I hope, Jenny, 


ESTHER WATERS 


170 

that you’ll take example by me and will do nothing 
foolish; you’ll always be a good girl.” 

“Yes, if I gets the chance.’’ 

“I’m sorry to ’ear you speak like that, and poor 
mother only just dead.” 

The words that rose to Jenny’s lips were: “A nice 
one you are, with a baby at your breast, to come 
a-lecturing me,” but, fearing Esther’s temper, she 
checked the dangerous words and said instead — 

“I didn’t mean that I was a-going on the streets 
right away this very evening, only that a girl left alone 
in London without anyone to look to may go wrong in 
spite of herself, as it were.” 

“A girl never need go wrong; if she does it is always 
’er own fault.” Esther spoke mechanically, but sud- 
denly remembering her own circumstances she said : 
“I’d give you the money if I dared, but for the child’s 
sake I mustn’t.” 

“You can afford it well enough — I wouldn’t ask you 
if you couldn’t. You’ll be earning a pound a week 
presently. ’ ’ 

“A pound a week! What do you mean, Jenny?” 

“Yer can get that as wet-nurse, and yer food too.” 

“How do yer know that, Jenny?” 

“A friend of mine who was ’ere last year told me 
she got it, and you can get it too if yer lik^s. Fancy 
a pound for the next six months, and everything 
found. Yer might spare me the money and let me go 
to Australia with the others. ’ ’ 

“I’d give yer the money if what you said was true.” 

“Yer can easily find out what I say is the truth by 
sending for the matron. Shall I go and fetch her? I 
won’t be a minute; you’ll see what she says.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


171 

A few moments after Jenny returned with a good- 
looking, middle-aged woman. On her face there was 
that testy and perplexed look that comes of much 
business and many interruptions. Before she had 
opened her lips her face had said: “Come, what is it? 
Be quick about it. ’ ’ 

“Father and the others is going to Australia. 
Mother’s dead and was buried last week, so father says 
there’s nothing to keep ’im ’ere, for there is better 
prospects out there. But he says he can’t take me, for 
the agency wants two pounds a ’ead, and it was all he 
could do to find the money for the others. He is just 
short of two pounds, and as I’m the eldest barring 
Esther, who is ’is step-daughter, ’e says that I had 
better remain, that I’m old enough to get my own liv- 
ing, which is very ’ard on a girl, for I’m only just 
turned sixteen. So I thought that I would come up 
’ere and tell my sister ’ ’ 

“But, my good girl, what has all this got to do with 
me? I can’t give you two pounds to go to Australia. 
You are only wasting my time for nothing.’’ 

“ ’Ear me out, missis. I want you to explain to my 
sister that you can get her a situation as a wet-nurse at 
a pound a week — that’s the usual money they gets, so 
I told her, but she won’t believe me; but if you tells 
her, she’ll give me two pounds and I shall be able to 
go with father to Australia, where they says there is 
fine chances for a girl. ’’ 

The matron examined in critical disdain the 
vague skirt, the broken boots, and the misshapen 
hat, coming all the while to rapid conclusions regard- 
ing the moral value of this unabashed child of the 
gutter. 


172 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I think your sister will be very foolish if she gives 
you her money.” 

“Oh, don’t say that, missis, don’t.” 

“How does she know that your story is true? Per- 
haps you are not going to Australia at all. ” 

“Perhaps I’m not — that’s just what I’m afraid of; 
but father is, and I can prove it to you. I’ve brought 
a letter from father — ’ere it is; now, is that good 
enough for yer?” 

“Come, no impertinence, or I’ll order you out 
of the hospital in double quick time,” said the 
matron. 

“I didn’t intend no impertinence,” said Jenny 
humbly, “only I didn’t like to be told I was telling lies 
when I was speaking the truth.” 

“Well, I see that your father is going to Australia,” 
the matron replied, returning the letter to Jenny; 
“you want your sister to give you her money to take 
you there too. ’ ’ 

“What I wants is for you to tell my sister that you 
can get her a situation as wet-nurse; then perhaps 
she’ll give me the money.” 

“If your sister wants to go out as wet-nurse, I dare- 
say I could get her a pound a week.” 

“But,” said Esther, “I should have to put baby out 
at nurse. ’ ’ 

“You’ll have to do that in any case,” Jenny inter- 
posed; “you can’t live for nine months on your savings 
and have all the nourishing food that you’ll want to 
keep your milk going. ’ ’ 

“If I was yer sister I’d see yer further before I’d 
give yer my money. You must ’ave a cheek to come 
a-asking for it, to go off to Australia where a girl ’as 


ESTHER WATERS 


173 


chances, and yer sister with a child at the breast left 
behind. Well I never!” 

Jenny and the matron turned suddenly and looked at 
the woman in the opposite bed who had so unex- 
pectedly expressed her views. Jenny was furious. 

“What odds is it to you?” she screamed; “what 
business is it of yours, coming poking your nose in -my 
affairs?” 

“Come, now, I can’t have any rowing,” exclaimed 
the matron. 

“Rowing! I should like to know what business it is 
of ’ers.” 

“Hush, hush, I can’t have you interfering with my 
patients; another word and I’ll order you out of the 
hospital. ’ ’ 

“Horder me out of the horspital! and what for? 
V/ho began it? No, missis, be fair; wait until my sis- 
ter gives her answer.” 

“Well, then, she must be quick about it — I can’t 
wait about here all day. ’ ’ 

“I’ll give my sister the money to take her to Aus- 
tralia if you say you can get me a situation as wet- 
nurse. ” 

“Yes, I think I can do that. It was four pounds five 
that you gave me to keep. I remember the amount, 
for since I’ve been here no one has come with half 
that. If they have five shillings they think they can 
buy half London. ’ ’ 

“My sister is very careful,” said Jenny, senten- 
tiously. The matron looked sharply at her and said — 

“Now come along with me — I’m going to fetch your 
sister’s money. I can’t leave you here — you’d get 
quarrelling with my patients. ’ ’ 


174 


ESTHER WATERS 


“No, missis, indeed I won’t say nothing to her.” 

“Do as I tell you. Come along with me.” 

So with a passing scowl Jenny expressed her con- 
tempt for the woman who had come “a-interfering in 
’er business,” and went after the matron, watching her 
every movement. When they came back Jenny’s eyes 
were fixed on the matron’s fat hand as if she could see 
the yellow metal through the fingers. 

“Here is your money,” said the matron; “four 
pounds five. You can give your sister what you like. ” 

Esther held the four sovereigns and the two half- 
crowns in her hand for a moment, then she said — 

“Here, Jenny, are the two pounds you want to take 
you to Australia. I ’ope they’ll bring you good luck, 
and that you’ll think of me sometimes.” 

“Indeed I will, Esther. You’ve been a good sister 
to me, indeed you ’ave; I shall never forget you, and 
will write to you. . . . It is very ’ard parting.” 

“Come, come, never mind those tears. You have 
got your money ; say good-bye to your sister and run 
along. ’ ’ 

“Don’t be so ’eartless,” cried Jenny, whose sus- 
ceptibilities were now on the move. “ ’Ave yer no 
feeling; don’t yer know what it is to bid good-bye to 
yer sister, and perhaps for ever?” Jenny flung her- 
self into Esther’s arms crying bitterly. “Oh, Esther, 
I do love you; yer ’ave been that kind to me I shall 
never forget it. I shall be very lonely without you. 
Write to me sometimes; it will be a comfort to hear 
how you are getting on. If I marry I’ll send for you, 
and you’ll bring the baby.” 

“Do you think I’d leave him behind? Kiss ’im 
before you go.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


175 


Good-bye, Esther ; take care of yourself. ’ ’ 

Esther was now alone in the world, and she remem- 
bered the night she walked home from the hos- 
pital and how cruel the city had seemed. She was 
now alone in that great wilderness with her child, for 
whom she would have to work for many, many years. 
How would it all end? Would she be able to live 
through it? Had she done right in letting Jenny have 
the money — ^her boy’s money? She should not have 
given it ; but she hardly knew what she was doing, she 
was so weak, and the news of her mother's death had 
overcome her. She should not have given Jenny her 
boy’s money. . . . But perhaps it might turn out 

all right after all. If the matron got her a situation as 
wet-nurse she’d be able to pull through. “So they 
would separate us, ’’ she whispered, bending over the 
sleeping child. “There is no help for it, my poor 
darling. There’s no help for it, no help for it.’’ 

Next day Esther was taken out of bed. She spent 
part of the afternoon sitting in an easy-chair, and Mrs. 
Jones came to see her. The little old woman seemed 
like one whom she had known always, and Esther told 
her about her mother’s death and the departure of her 
family for Australia. Perhaps a week lay between her 
and the beginning of the struggle which she dreaded. 
She had been told that they did not usually keep any- 
one in the hospital more than a fortnight. Three days 
after Mrs. Jones’ visit the matron came into their room 
hurriedly. 

“I’m very sorry, ’’ she said, “but a number of new 
patients are expected; there’s nothing for it but to get 
rid of you. It is a pity, for I can see you are both 
very weak.’’ 


176 


ESTHER WATERS 


“What, me too?” said the woman in the other bed. 
“I can hardly stand; I tried just now to get across 
the room.” 

“I’m very sorry, but we’ve new patients coming, 
and there’s all our spring cleaning. Have you any 
place to go to?’’ 

“No place except a lodging,’’ said Esther; “and I 
have only two pounds five now. ’ ’ 

“What’s the use in taking us at all if you fling us out 
on the street when we can hardly walk?” said the other 
woman. “I wish I had gone and drowned myself. I 
was very near doing it. If I had it would be all 
over now for me and the poor baby. ’ ’ 

“I’m used to all this ingratitude,” said the matron. 
“You have got through your confinement very com- 
fortably, and your baby is quite healthy ; I hope you’ll 
try and keep it so. Have you any money?” 

‘ ‘ Only four-and- sixpence. ’ ’ 

“Have you got any friends to whom you can go?” 

“No.” 

“Then you’ll have to apply for admission to the 
workhouse. ’ ’ 

The woman made no answer, and at that moment 
two sisters came and forcibly began to dress her. She 
fell back from time to time in their arms, almost 
fainting. 

“Lord, what a job!” said one sister; “she’s just like 
so much lead in one’s arms. But if we listened to 
them we should have them loafing here over a month 
more. ’ ’ Esther did not require much assistance, and 
the sister said, “Oh, you are as strong as they make 
’em; you might have gone two days ago.” 

“You’re no better than brutes,” Esther muttered. 


BS THER WA TERS 


177 


Then, turning to the matron, she said, “You promised 
to get me a situation as wet-nurse, ’ ' 

“Yes, so I did, but the lady who I intended to 
recommend you to wrote this morning to say that she 
had suited herself. ’ ’ 

“But do you think you could get me a situation as 
wet-nurse?” said the other woman; “it would save me 
from going to the workhouse. ’ ’ 

“I really don’t know what to do with you all; you 
all want to stop in the hospital at least a month, eating 
and drinking the best of everything, and then you 
want situations as wet-nurses at a pound a week.” 

“But,” said Esther, indignantly, ‘‘I never should 
have given my sister two pounds if you had not told 
me you could get me the situation.” 

“I’m sorry,” said the matron, “to have to send you 
away. I should like to have kept you, but really there 
is no help for it. As for the situation. I’ll do the best 
I can. It is true that place I intended for you is filled 
up, but there will be another shortly, and you shall 
have the first. Give me your address. I shall not 
keep you long waiting, you can depend upon me. You 
are still very weak, I can see that. Would you like to 
have one of the nurses to walk round with you? You 
had better — you might fall and hurt the baby. My 
word, he is a fine boy. ’ ’ 

‘‘Yes, he is a beautiful boy; it will break my heart 
to part with him.” 

Some eight or nine poor girls stood outside, dressed 
alike in dingy garments. They were like half-dead 
flies trying to crawl through an October afternoon; 
and with their babies and a keen wind blowing, they 
found it difficult to hold on their hats. 


178 


ESTHER WATERS 


“It do catch you a bit rough, coming out of them 
’ot rooms,” said a woman standing by her. “I’m that 
weak I can ’ardly carry my baby. I dunno ’ow I shall 
get as far as the Edgware Road. I take my ’bus 
there. Are you going that way?” 

“No, I’m going close by, round the corner.” 


i 


XVIII. 


Her hair hung about her, her hands and wrists were 
shrunken, her flesh was soft and flabby, and she had 
dark shadows in her face. Nursing her child seemed 
to draw all strength from her, and her nervous depres- 
sion increased ; she was too weary and ill to think of 
the future, and for a whole week her physical condition 
held her, to the exclusion of every other thought. 
Mrs. Jones was very kind, and only charged her ten 
shillings a week for her board and lodging, but this 
was a great deal when only two pounds flve shillings 
remained between her and the workhouse, and this 
fact was brought home to her when Mrs. Jones came 
to her for the first week’s money. Ten shillings gone; 
only one pound fifteen shillings left, and still she was 
so weak that she could hardly get up and down stairs. 
But if she were twice as weak, if she had to crawl 
along the street on her hands and knees, she must go 
to the hospital and implore the matron to get her a 
situation as wet-nurse. It was raining heavily, and 
Mrs. Jones said it was madness for her to go out in 
such weather, but go she must ; and though it was dis- 
tant only a few hundred yards, she often thought she 
would like to lie down and die. And at the hospital 
only disappointment. Why hadn't she called yester- 
day? Yesterday two ladies of title had come and taken 
two girls away. Such a chance might not occur for 
some time. “For some time,” thought Esther; “very 

179 


i8o 


ESTHER WATERS 


soon I shall have to apply for admission at the work- 
house. ” She reminded the matron of her promise, 
and returned home more dead than alive. Mrs. Jones 
helped her to change her clothes, and bade her be of 
good heart. Esther looked at her hopelessly, and sit- 
ting down on the edge of her bed she put the baby to 
her breast. 

Another week passed. She had been to the hospital 
every day, but no one had been to inquire for a wet- 
nurse. Her money was reduced to a few shillings, and 
she tried to reconcile herself to the idea that she might 
do worse than to accept the harsh shelter of the work- 
house. Her nature revolted against it ; but she must 
do what was best for the child. She often asked her- 
self how it would all end, and the more she thought, 
the more terrible did the future seem. Her miserable 
meditations were interrupted by a footstep on the 
stairs. It was Mrs. Jones, coming to tell her that a 
lady who wanted a wet-nurse had come from the hos- 
pital ; and a lady entered dressed in a beautiful brown 
silk, and looked around the humble room, clearly 
shocked at its poverty. Esther, who was sitting on 
the bed, rose to meet the fine lady, a thin woman, 
with narrow temples, aquiline features, bright eyes, 
and a disagreeable voice. 

“You are the young person who wants a situation as 
wet-nurse?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Are you married?” 

“No, ma’am.” 

“Is that your first child?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Ah! that’s a pity. But it doesn’t matter much, s(? 


ESTHER WATERS 


i8i 

long as you and your baby are healthy. Will you show 
it to me?” 

“He is asleep now, ma’am,’* Esther said, raising the 
bed-clothes; “there never was a healthier child.” 

“Yes, he seems healthy enough. You have a good 
supply of milk?” 

“Yes, ma’am.” 

“Fifteen shillings, and all found. Does that suit 
you?” 

“I had expected a pound a week.” 

“It is only your first baby. Fifteen shillings is quite 
enough. Of course I only engage you subject to the 
doctor’s approval. I’ll ask him to call. ” 

“Very well, ma’am; I shall be glad of the place.” 

“Then it is settled. You can come at once?” 

“I must arrange to put my baby out to nurse, 
ma’am. ” 

The lady’s face clouded. But following up another 
train of thought, she said — 

“Of course you must arrange about your baby, and I 
hope you’ll make proper arrangements. Tell the 
woman in whose charge you leave it that I shall want 
to see it every three weeks. It will be better so,” she 
added under her breath, “for two have died already.” 

“This is my card,” said the lady — “Mrs. Rivers, 
Curzon Street, Mayfair — and I shall expect you 
to-morrow afternoon — that is to say, if the doctor 
approves of you. Here is one-and-sixpence for your 
cab fare.” 

“Thank you, ma’am.” 

“I shall expect you not later than four o’clock. I 
hope you won’t disappoint me ; remember my child is 
waiting.” 


i 82 


ESTHER WATERS 


When Mrs. Rivers left, Esther consulted with Mrs. 
Jones. The difficulty was now where she should put 
the child out at nurse. It was now just after two 
o’clock. The baby was fast asleep, and would want 
nothing for three or four hours. It would be well for 
Esther to put on her hat and jacket and go off at once. 
Mrs. Jones gave her the address of a respectable 
woman who used to take charge of children. But this 
woman was nursing twins, and could not possibly 
undertake the charge of another baby. And Esther 
visited many streets, always failing for one reason or 
another. At last she found herself in Wandsworth, in 
a battered-tumble-down little street, no thoroughfare, 
only four houses and a coal-shed. Broken wooden 
palings stood in front of the small area into which 
descent was made by means of a few wooden steps. 
The wall opposite seemed to be the back of some 
stables, and in the area of No. 3 three little mites 
were playing. The baby was tied in a chair, and a 
short fat woman came out of the kitchen at Esther’s 
call, her dirty apron sloping over her high stomach, 
and her pale brown hair, twisted into a knot at the top 
of her head. 

“Well, what is it?’’ 

“I came about putting a child out to nurse. You 
are Mrs. Spires, ain’t yer?’’ 

“Yes, that’s my name. May I ask who sent you?’’ 

Esther told her, and then Mrs. Spires asked her to 
step down into the kitchen. 

“Them ’ere children you saw in the area I looks 
after while their mothers are out washing or char- 
ing. They takes them ’ome in the evening. I only 
charges them four-pence a-day, and it is a loss at 


ESTHER WATERS 183 

that, for they does take a lot of minding. What age 
is yours?” 

‘‘Mine is only a month old. I’ve a chance to go out 
as wet-nurse if I can find a place to put him out at 
nurse. Will you look after my baby?” 

“How much do you think of paying for him?” 

“Five shillings a week.” 

“And you a-going out as wet-nurse at a pound a 
week ; you can afford more than that. ’ * 

“I’m only getting fifteen shillings a week.” 

“Well, you can afford to pay six. I tell you the 
responsibility of looking after a hinfant is that awful 
nowadays that I don’t care to undertake it for less.” 

Esther hesitated ; she did not like this woman. 

“I suppose,” said the woman, altering her tone to 
one of mild interrogation, “you would like your baby 
to have the best of everything, and not the drainings 
of any bottle that’s handy?” 

“I should like my child to be well looked after, and 
I must see the child every three weeks. ’ ’ 

“Do you expect me to bring up the child to 
wherever the lady lives, and pay my ’bus fare, all out 
of five shillings a week? It can’t be done!” Esther 
did not answer. “You ain’t married, of course?” 
Mrs. Spires said suddenly. 

“No, I aint; what about that?” 

“Oh, nothing; there is so many of you, that’s all. 
You can’t lay yer ’and on the father and get a bit out 
of ’im?” 

The conversation paused. Esther felt strangely 
undecided. She looked round suspiciously, and notic- 
ing the look the woman said — 

“Your baby will be well looked after ’ere; a nice 


184 


ESTHER WATERS 


warm kitchen, and I’ve no other babies for the 
moment; them children don’t give no trouble, they 
plays in the area. You had better let me have the 
child; you won’t do better than ’ere.” 

Esther promised to think it over and let her know 
to-morrow. It took her many omnibuses to get home, 
and it was quite dark when she pushed the door to. 
The first thing that caught her ear was her child cry- 
ing. ”What is the matter?” she cried, hurrying down 
the passage. 

“Oh, is that you? You have been away a time. 
The poor child is that hungry he has been crying this 
hour or more. If I’d ’ad a bottle I’d ’ave given him a 
little milk. ’ ’ 

“Hungry, is he? Then he shall have plenty soon. 
It is nearly the last time I shall nurse the poor 
darling. ” Then she told Mrs. Jones about Mrs. Spires, 
and both women tried to arrive at a decision. 

“Since you have to put the child out to nurse, you 
might as well put him there as elsewhere ; the woman 
will look after him as well as she can — she’ll do that, 
if it is for the sake of the six shillings a week.” 

“Yes, yes, I know; but I’ve always heard that chil- 
dren die that are put out to nurse. If mine died I 
never should forgive myself.” 

She could not sleep; she lay with her arms about 
her baby, distracted at the thought of parting from 
him. What had she done that her baby should be 
separated from her? What had the poor little darling 
done? He at least was innocent; why should he be 
deprived of his mother? At midnight she got up and 
lighted a candle, looked at him, took him in her arms, 
squeezed him to her bosom till he cried, and the 


ESTHER WATERS 185 

thought came that it would be sweeter to kill him with 
her own hands than to be parted from him. 

The thought of murder went with the night, and she 
enjoyed the journey to Wandsworth. Her baby 
laughed and cooed, and was much admired in the 
omnibus, and the little street where Mrs. Spires lived 
seemed different. A cart of hay was being unloaded, 
and this gave the place a pleasant rural air. Mrs. 
Spires, too, was cleaner, tidier ; Esther no longer dis- 
liked her ; she had a nice little cot ready for the baby, 
and he seemed so comfortable in it that Esther did not 
feel the pangs at parting which she had expected to 
feel. She would see him in a few weeks, and in those 
weeks she would be richer. It seemed quite wonder- 
ful to earn so much money in so short a time. She 
had had a great deal of bad luck, but her luck seemed 
to have turned at last. So engrossed was she in the 
consideration of her good fortune that she nearly for- 
got to get out of her ’bus at Charing Cross, and had it 
not been for the attention of the conductor might have 
gone on, she did not know where — perhaps to Clerken- 
well, or may be to Islington. When the second ’bus 
turned into Oxford Street she got out, not wishing to 
spend more money than was necessary. Mrs. Jones ap- 
proved of all she had done, helped her to pack up her 
box, and sent her away with many kind wishes to 
Curzon Street in a cab. 

Esther was full of the adventure and the golden 
prospect before her. She wondered if the house she 
was going to was as grand as Wood view, and she was 
struck by the appearance of the maid-servant who 
opened the door to her. 

‘*Oh, here you are,” Mrs. Rivers said. “I have 


i86 


ESTHER WATERS 


been anxiously expecting you ; my baby is not at all 
well. Come up to the nursery at once. I don’t know 
your name, ’ ' she said, turning to Esther. 

“Waters, ma’am.’’ 

“Emily, you’ll see that Waters’ box is taken to her 
room. ’ ’ 

“I’ll see to it, ma’am.’’ 

“Then come up at once. Waters. I hope you’ll suc- 
ceed better than the others. ’ ’ • ^ 

A tall, handsome gentleman stood at the door of a 
room full of beautiful things, and as they went past 
him Mrs. Rivers said, “This is the new nurse, dear.’’ 
Higher up, Esther saw a bedroom of soft hangings and 
bright porcelain. Then another staircase, and the little 
wail of a child caught on the ear, and Mrs. Rivers said, 
“The poor little thing; it never ceases crying. Take 
it, Waters, take it.’’ 

Esther sat down, and soon the little thing ceased 
crying. 

“It seems to take to you,’’ said the anxious mother. 

“So it seems,’’ said Esther; “it is a wee thing, not 
half the size of my boy. ’ ’ 

“I hope the milk will suit it, and that it won’t bring 
up what it takes. This is our last chance. ’ ’ 

“I daresay it will come round, ma’am. I suppose 
you weren’t strong enough to nurse it yourself, and 
yet you looks healthy. ’ ’ 

“I? No, I could not undertake to nurse it.’’ Then, 
glancing suspiciously at Esther, whose breast was like 
a little cup, Mrs. Rivers said, “I hope you have plenty 
of milk?” 

“Oh, yes, ma’am; they said at the hospital I could 
bring up twins. ’’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


187 


“Your supper will be ready at nine. But that will 
be a long time for you to wait. I told them to cut you 
some sandwiches, and you’ll have a glass of porter. 
Or perhaps you’d prefer to wait till supper? You 
can have your supper, you know, at eight, if you 
like?” 

Esther took a sandwich and Mrs. Rivers poured out 
a glass of porter. And later in the evening Mrs. 
Rivers came down from her drawing-room to see that 
Esther’s supper was all right, and not satisfied with the 
handsome fare that had been laid before her child’s 
nurse, she went into the kitchen and gave strict orders 
that the meat for the future was not to be quite so 
much cooked. 

Henceforth it seemed to Esther that she was eating 
all day. The food was doubtless necessary after the 
great trial of the flesh she had been through, likewise 
pleasant after her long abstinences. She grew happy 
in the tide of new blood flowing in her veins, and 
might easily have abandoned herself in the seduction 
of these carnal influences. But her moral nature was 
of tough fibre, and ^nade mute revolt. Such constant 
mealing did not seem natural, and the obtuse brain of 
this lowly servant-girl was perplexed. Her self- 
respect was wounded; she hated her position in this 
house, and sought consolation in the thought that she 
was earning good money for her baby. She noticed, 
too, that she never was allowed out alone, and that her 
walks were limited to just sufficient exercise to keep 
her in health. 

A fortnight passed, and one afternoon, after having 
put baby to sleep, she said to Mrs. Rivers, “I hope, 
ma’am, you’ll be able to spare me for a couple of 


ESTHER WATERS 


1 88 

hours; baby won’t want me before then. I’m very 
anxious about my little one. ’ ’ 

“Oh, nurse, I couldn’t possibly hear of it; such a 
thing is never allowed. You cap write to the woman, 
if you like.” 

“I do not know how to write, ma’am.” 

“Then you can get some one to write for you. But 
your baby is no doubt all right.” 

“But, ma’am, you are uneasy about your baby; you 
are up in the nursery twenty times a day ; it is only 
natural I should be uneasy about mine.” 

“But, nurse, I’ve no one to send with you.” 

“There is no reason why any one should go with 
me, ma’am ; I can take care of myself. ’ ’ 

“What! let you go off all the way to — where did you 
say you had left it — ^Wandsworth? — by yourself! I 
really couldn’t think of it. I don’t want to be unneces- 
sarily hard — but I really couldn’t — no mother could. 
I must consider the interests of my child. But I 
don’t want you to agitate yourself, and if you like 
I’ll write myself to the woman who has charge of 
your baby. I cannot do more, aifd I hope you’ll be 
satisfied. ’ ’ 

By what right, by what law, was she separated from 
her child? She was tired of hearing Mrs. Rivers 
speak of “my child, my child, my child,” and of seeing 
this fine lady turn up her nose when she spoke of her 
own beautiful boy. When Mrs. Rivers came to 
engage her she had said that it would be better for the 
baby to be brought to see her every three or four 
weeks, for two had died already. At the time Esther 
had not understood. She had supposed vaguely, in a 
passing way, that Mrs. Rivers had already lost two 


ESTHER WATERS 


189 


children. But yesterday the housemaid had told her 
that that little thing in the cradle had had two wet- 
nurses before Esther, and that both babies had died. 
It was then a life for a life. It was more. The children 
of two poor girls had been sacrificed so that this rich 
woman’s child might be saved. Even that was not 
enough, the life of her beautiful boy was called for. 
Then other memories swept into Esther’s frenzied 
brain. She remembered vague hints, allusions that 
Mrs. Spires had thrown out; and as if in the obtuse- 
ness of a nightmare, it seemed to this ignorant girl that 
she was the victim of a dark and far-reaching con- 
spiracy ; she experienced the sensation of the captured 
animal, and she scanned the doors and windows, think- 
ing of some means of escape. 

At that moment a knock was heard and the house- 
maid came in. 

“The woman who has charge of your baby has come 
to see you.” 

Esther started up from her chair, and fat little Mrs. 
Spires waddled into the room, the ends of her shawl 
touching the ground. 

“Where is my baby?’’ said Esther. “Why haven’t 
you brought him?” 

“Why, you see, my dear, the sweet little thing didn’t 
seem as well as usual this afternoon, and I did not 
care to bring him out, it being a long way and a trifle 
cold. . . . It is nice and warm in here. May I 

sit down?’’ 

“Yes, there’s a chair; but tell me what is the matter 
with him?’’ 

“A little cold, dear — nothing to speak of. You must 
not excite yourself, it isn’t worth while; besides, it’s 


190 


ESTHER WATERS 


bad for you and the little darling in the cradle. May 
I have a look? . . . A little girl, isn’t it?” 

“Yes, it is a girl. ” 

“And a beautiful little girl too. ’Ow ’ealthy she do 
look! I’ll be bound you have made a difference in 
her. I suppose you are beginning to like her just as if 
she was your own?” 

Esther did not answer. 

“Yer know, all you girls are dreadful taken with 
their babies at first. But they is a awful drag on a girl 
who gets her living in service. For my part I do 
think it providential-like that rich folk don’t nurse 
their own. If they did, I dunno what would become 
of all you poor girls. The situation of wet-nurse is 
just what you wants at the time, and it is good money. 
I hope yer did what I told you and stuck out for a 
pound a week. Rich folk like these here would think 
nothing of a pound a week, nor yet two, when they 
sees their child is suited. ’ ’ 

“Never mind about my money, that’s my affair. 
Tell me what’s the matter with my baby?” 

“ ’Ow yer do ’arp on it! I’ve told yer that ’e’s all 
right; nothing to signify, only a little poorly, but 
knowing you was that anxious I thought it better to 
come up. I didn’t know but what you might like to 
’ave in the doctor. ’ ’ 

“Does he require the doctor? I thought you said it 
was nothing to signify.” 

“That depends on ’ow yer looks at it. Some likes 
to ’ave in the doctor, however little the ailing; then 
others won’t ’ave anything to do with doctors — don’t 
believe in them. So I thought I’d come up and see 
what you thought about it. I would ’ave sent for the 


ESTHER WATERS 


191 

doctor this morning — I’m one of those who ’as faith in 
doctors — but being a bit short of money I thought I’d 
come up and ask you for a trifle. ’ ' 

At that moment Mrs. Rivers came into the nursery 
and her first look went in the direction of the cradle, 
then she turned to consider curtseying Mrs. Spires. 

“This is Mrs. Spires, the lady who is looking after 
my baby, ma’am,’’ said Esther; “she has come with 
bad news — my baby is ill. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I’m sorry. But I daresay it is nothing.” 

“But Mrs. Spires says, ma’am ” 

“Yes, ma’am, the little thing seemed a bit poorly, 
and I being short of money, ma’am, I had to come and 
see nurse. I knows right well that they must not be 
disturbed, and of course your child’s ’ealth is every- 
thing; but if I may make so bold I’d like to say that 
the little dear do look beautiful. Nurse is bringing 
her up that well that yer must have every satisfaction 
in ’er.” 

“Yes, she seems to suit the child; that’s the reason I 
don’t want her upset. ” 

“It won’t occur again, ma’am, I promise you.” 

Esther did not answer, and her white, sullen face 
remained unchanged. She had a great deal on her 
mind, and would have spoken if the words did not seem 
to betray her when she attempted to speak. 

“When the baby is well, and the doctor is satisfied 
there is no danger of infection, you can bring it here 
— once a month will be sufficient. Is there anything 
more?” 

“Mrs. Spires thinks my baby ought to see the 
doctor. ’ ’ 

“Well, let her send for the doctor.” 


192 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Being a bit short of money “ 

“How much is it?” said Esther. 

“Well, what we pays is five shillings to the doctor, 
but then there’s the medicine he will order, and I was 
going to speak to you about a piece of fiannel ; if yer 
could let me have ten shillings to go on with. ’ ’ 

“But I haven’t so much left. I must see my baby,” 
and Esther moved towards the door. 

“No, no, nurse, I cannot hear of it; I’d sooner pay 
the money myself. Now, how much do you want, 
Mrs. Spires?” 

“Ten shillings will do for the present, ma’am.” 

“Here they are; let the child have every attendance, 
and remember you are not to come troubling my nurse. 
Above all, you are not to come up to the nursery. I 
don’t know how it happened, it was a mistake on the 
part of the new housemaid. You must have my per- 
mission before you see my nurse.” And while talking 
rapidly and imperatively Mrs. Rivers, as it were, drove 
Mrs. Spires out of the nursery. Esther could hear 
them talking on the staircase, and she listened, all the 
while striving to collect her thoughts. Mrs. Rivers 
said when she returned, “I really cannot allow her to 
come here upsetting you. ” Then, as if impressed by 
the sombre look on Esther’s face, she added: “Upset- 
ting you about nothing. I assure you it will be all 
right; only a little indisposition.” 

“I must see my baby,” Esther replied. 

“Come, nurse, you shall see your baby the moment 
the doctor says it is fit to come here. You can’t 
expect me to do more than that.” Esther did not 
move, and thinking that it would not be well to argue 
with her, Mrs. Rivers went over to the cradle. “See, 


ESTHER WATERS 


193 


nurse, the little darling has just woke up ; come and 
take her, Pm sure she wants you.” 

Esther did not answer her. She stood looking into 
space, and it seemed to Mrs. Rivers that it would be 
better not to provoke a scene. She went towards the 
door slowly, but a little cry from the cradle stopped 
her, and she said — 

‘‘Come, nurse, what is it? Come, the baby is wait- 
ing for you.” 

Then, like one waking from a dream, Esther said: 
‘‘If my baby is all right, ma’am. I’ll come back, but if 
he wants me. I’ll have to look after him first.” 

“You forget that I’m paying you fifteen shillings a 
week. I pay you for nursing my baby ; you take my 
money, that’s sufficient.” . 

“Yes, I do take your money, ma’am. But the 
housemaid has told me that you had two wet-nurses 
before me, and that both their babies died, so I cannot 
stop here now that mine’s ill. Everyone for her own ; 
you can’t blame me. I’m sorry for yours — poor little 
thing, she was getting on nicely too. ” 

“But, Waters, you won’t leave my baby. It’s cruel 
of you. If I could nurse it myself ’ ’ 

“Why couldn’t you, ma’am? You look fairly strong 
and healthy.” 

Esther spoke in her quiet, stolid way, finding her 
words unconsciously. 

“You don’t know what you’re saying, nurse; you 
can’t. . . . You’ve forgotten yourself. Next 

time I engage a nurse I’ll try to get one who has lost 
her baby, and then there’ll be no bother.” 

“It is a life for a life — more than that, ma’am — two 
lives for a life ; and now the life of my boy is asked for. ’ ’ 


194 


ESTHER WATERS 


A Strange look passed over Mrs. Rivers’ face. She 
knew, of course, that she stood well within the law, 
that she was doing no more than a hundred other 
fashionable women were doing at the same moment; 
but this plain girl had a plain way of putting things, 
and she did not care for it to be publicly known that 
the life of her child had been bought with the lives of 
two poor children. But her temper was getting the 
better of her. 

“He’ll only be a drag on you. You’ll never be able 
to bring him up, poor little bastard child. ’ ’ 

“It is wicked of you to speak like that, ma’am, 
though it is I who am saying it. It is none of the 
child’s fault if he hasn’t got a father, nor is it right 
that he should be deserted for that . . . and it is 

not for you to tell me to do such a thing. If you had 
made sacrifice of yourself in the beginning and nursed 
your own child such thoughts would not have come to 
you. But when you hire a poor girl such as me to 
give the milk that belongs to another to your child, 
you think nothing of the poor deserted one. He is but 
a bastard, you say, and had better be dead and done 
with. I see it all now ; I have been thinking it out. 
It is all so hidden up that the meaning is not clear at 
first, but what it comes to is this, that fine folks like 
you pays the money, and Mrs. Spires and her like gets 
rid of the poor little things. Change the milk a few 
times, a little neglect, and the poor servant girl is 
spared the trouble of bringing up her baby and can 
make a handsome child of the rich woman’s little 
starveling.’’ 

At that moment the baby began to cry ; both women 
looked in the direction of the cradle. 


ESTH*tER WATERS 


195 


“Nurse, you have utterly forgotten yourself, you 
have talked a great deal of nonsense, you have said a 
great deal that is untrue. You accused me of wishing 
your baby were dead, indeed I hardly know what wild 
remarks you did not indulge in. Of course, I cannot 
put up with such conduct — to-morrow you will come to 
me and apologise. In the meantime the baby wants 
you, are you not going to her?” 

“Fm going to my own child.” 

“That means that you refuse to nurse my baby?” 

“Yes, Fm going straight to look after my own.” 

“If you leave my house you shall never enter it 
again. ’ ’ 

“I don’t want to enter it again. ” 

‘ ‘ I sliall not pay you one shilling if you leave my 
baby. You have no money. ” 

“I shall try to manage without. I shall go with my 
baby to the workhouse. However bad the living may 
be there, he’ll be with his mother.” 

“If you go to-night my baby will die. She cannot 
be brought up on the bottle. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I hope not, ma’am. I should be sorry, indeed 
I should.” 

“Then stay, nurse.” 

“I must go to my baby, ma’am.” 

“Then you shall go at once — this very instant.” 

“I’m going this very instant, as soon as I’ve put on 
my hat and jacket. ’ ’ 

“You had better take your box with you. If you 
don’t I shall have it thrown into the street. ’ ’ 

“I daresay you’re cruel enough to do that if the law 
allows you, only be careful that it do.” 


XIX. 


The moment Esther got out of the house in Ciirzon 
Street she felt in her pocket for her money. She had 
only a few pence ; enough for her ’bus fare, however, 
and her thoughts did not go further. She was 
absorbed by one desire, how to save her child — how to 
save him from Mrs. Spires, whom she vaguely sus- 
pected; from the world, which called him a bastard 
and denied to him the right to live. And she sat as if 
petrified in the corner of the ’bus, seeing nothing but a 
little street of four houses, facing some hay-lofts, the 
low-pitched kitchen, the fat woman, the cradle in the 
corner. The intensity and the oneness of her desire 
seemed to annihilate time, and when she got out of the 
omnibus she walked with a sort of animal-like instinct 
straight for the house. There was a light in the 
kitchen just as she expected, and as she descended the 
four wooden steps into the area she looked to see if 
Mrs. Spires was there. She was there, and Esther 
pushed open the door. 

“Where’s my baby?’’ 

“Lord, ’ow yer did frighten me!’’ said Mrs. Spires, 
turning from the range and leaning against the table, 
which was laid for supper. “Coming like that into 
other folk’s places without a word of warning — with- 
out as much as knocking at the door. ’ ’ 

“I beg your pardon, but I was that anxious about 
my baby. ’ ’ 


196 


ESTHER WATERS 


197 


“Was you indeed? It is easy to see it is the first 
one. There it is in the cradle there.” 

“Have you sent for the doctor?” 

“Sent for the doctor! I’ve to get my husband’s 
supper.” 

Esther took her baby out of the cradle. It woke up 
crying, and Esther said, “You don’t mind my sitting 
down a moment. The poor little thing wants its 
mother. ’ ’ 

“If Mrs. Rivers saw you now a-nursing of yer 
baby?” 

“I shouldn’t care if she did. He’s thinner than 
when I left him; ten days ’ave made a difference in 
him.” 

“Well, yer don’t expect a child to do as well 
without its mother as with her. But tell me, how did 
yer get out? You must have come away shortly after 
me. ” 

“I wasn’t going to stop there and my child ill.” 

“Yer don’t mean to tell me that yer ’ave gone and 
thrown hup the situation?” 

“She told me if I went out, I should never enter her 
door again.” 

“And what did you say?” 

“Told her I didn’t want to.” 

“And what, may I ask, are yer thinking of doing? 
I ’eard yer say yer ’ad no money.” 

“I don’t know. ” 

“Take my advice, and go straight back and ask ’er 
to overlook it, this once. ’ ’ 

“Oh, no, she’d never take me back.” 

“Yes, she will; you suits the child, and that’s all 
they think of. ’ ’ 


198 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I don’t know what will become of me and my 
baby. ’ ’ 

“No more don’t I. Yer can’t stop always in the 
work’us, and a baby’ll be a ’eavy drag on you. Can’t 
you lay ’ands on ’is father, some’ow?’’ 

Esther shook her head, and Mrs. Spires noticed that 
she was crying. 

“I’m all alone,’’ she said; “I don’t know ’ow I’m 
ever to pull through.’’ 

“Not with that child yer won’t — it ain’t possible. 
. . . You girls is all alike, yer thinks of nothing 

but yer babies for the first few weeks, then yer tires of 
them, the drag on yer is that ’eavy — I knows yer — and 
then yer begins to wish they ’ad never been born, or 
yer wishes they had died afore they knew they was 
alive. I don’t say I’m not often sorry for them, poor 
little dears, but they takes less notice than you’d think 
for, and they is better out of the way ; they really is, 
it saves a lot of trouble hereafter. I often do think 
that to neglect them, to let them go off quiet, that I be 
their best friend; not wilful neglect, yer know, but 
what is a woman to do with ten or a dozen, and I 
often ’as as many? I am sure they’d thank me for 
it.’’ 

Esther did not answer, but judging by her face that 
she had lost all hope, Mrs. Spires was tempted to con- 
tinue. 

“There’s that other baby in the far corner, that was 
brought ’ere since you was ’ere by a servant-girl like 
yerself. She’s out a-nursing of a lady’s child, getting 
a pound a week, just as you was; well, now, I asks 
’ow she can ’ope to bring up that ’ere child — a weakly 
little thing that wants the doctor and all sorts of look- 


ESTHER WATERS 


199 


ing after. If that child was to live it would be the ruin 
of that girl’s life. Don’t yer ’ear what I’m saying?’* 

“Yes, I hear,” said Esther, speaking like one in a 
dream; “don't she care for her baby, then?” 

‘ ‘ She used to care for them, but if they had all lived 
I should like to know where she’d be. There ’as been 
five of them — that’s the fifth — so, instead of them 
a-costing ’er money, they brings ’er money. She ’as 
never failed yet to suit ’erself in a situation as wet- 
nurse.” 

“And they all died?” 

“Yes, they all died; and this little one don’t look as 
if it was long for the world, do it?” said Mrs. Spires, 
who had taken the infant from the cradle to show 
Esther. Esther looked at the poor wizened features, 
twitched with pain, and the far-off cry of doom, a tiny 
tinkle from the verge, shivered in the ear with a 
strange pathos. 

“It goes to my ’eart,” said Mrs. Spires, “it do 
indeed, but. Lord, it is the best that could ’appen to 
’em; who’s to care for ’em? and there is ’undreds and 
’undreds of them — ay, thoiisands and thousands every 
year — and they all dies like the early shoots. It is 
'ard, very ’ard, poor little dears, but they is best out of 
the way — they is only an expense and a disgrace. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Spires talked on in a rapid, soothing, soporific 
voice. She had just finished pouring some milk in 
the baby’s bottle and had taken down a jug of water 
from the dresser. 

“But that’s cold water,” said Esther, waking from 
the stupor of her despair; “it will give the baby gripes 
for certain. ’ ’ 

“I’ve no ’ot water ready; I’ll let the bottle stand 


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afore the fire, that’ll do as well. ” Watching Esther all 
the while, Mrs. Spires held the bottle a few moments 
before the fire, and then gave it to the child to suck. 
Very soon after a cry of pain came from the cradle. 

“The little dear never was well; it wouldn’t surprise 
me a bit if it died — went off before morning. It do 
look that poorly. One can’t 'elp being sorry for 
them, though one knows there is no ’ouse for them 
’ere. Poor little angels, and not even baptised. 
There’s them that thinks a lot of getting that over. 
But who’s to baptise the little angels?” 

“Baptise them?” Esther repeated. “Oh, sprinkle 
them, you mean. That’s not the way with the Lord’s 
people;” and to escape from a too overpowering 
reality she continued to repeat the half- forgotten patter 
of the Brethren, “You must wait until it is a symbol 
of living faith in the Lord ! ’ ’ And taking the baby in 
her hands for a moment, the wonder crossed her mind 
whether he would ever grow up and find salvation and 
testify to the Lord as an adult in voluntary baptism. 

All the while Mrs. Spires was getting on with her 
cooking. Several times she looked as if she were 
going to speak, and several times she checked herself. 
In truth, she didn’t know what to make of Esther. 
Was her love of her child such love as would enable 
her to put up with all hardships for its sake, or was it 
the fleeting affection of the ordinary young mother, 
which, though ardent at first, gives way under diffi- 
culties? Mrs. Spires had heard many mothers talk as 
Esther talked, but when the real strain of life was put 
upon them they had yielded to the temptation of rid- 
ding themselves of their burdens. So Mrs. Spires 
could not believe that Esther was really different from 


ESTHER WATERS 


201 


the others, and if carefully handled she would do what 
the others had done. Still, there was something in 
Esther which kept Mrs. Spires from making any dis- 
tinct proposal. But it were a pity to let the girl slip 
through her fingers — five pounds were not picked up 
every day. There were three five-pound notes in the 
cradles. If Esther would listen to reason there would 
be twenty pounds, and the money was wanted badly. 
Once more greed set Mrs. Spires’ tongue flowing, and, 
representing herself as a sort of guardian angel, she 
spoke again about the mother of the dying child, press- 
ing ^Esther to think what the girl’s circumstances 
womd have been if they had all lived. 

“And they all died?” said Esther. 

“Yes, and a good job, too,” said Mrs. Spires, whose 
temper for the moment outsped her discretion. Was 
this penniless drab doing it on purpose to annoy her? 
A nice one indeed to high-and-mighty it over her. 
She would show her in mighty quick time she had 
come to the wrong shop. Just as Mrs. Spires was 
about to speak out she noticed that Esther was in 
tears. Mrs. Spires always looked upon tears as a good 
sign, so she resolved to give her one more chance. 
“What are you crying about?” she said. 

“Oh,” said Esther, “I don’t even know where I 
shall sleep to-night. I have only threepence, and not 
a friend in the world. ’ ’ 

“Now look ’ere, if you'll listen to reason I’ll talk to 
you. Yer mustn’t look upon me as a henemy. I’ve 
been a good friend to many a poor girl like you afore 
now, and I’ll be one to you if you’re sensible like. I’ll 
do for you what I’m doing for the other girl, Give me 
five pounds ” 


202 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Five pounds! I’ve only a few pence. “ 

“ ’Ear me out. Go back to yer situation — she’ll take 
you back, yer suits the child, that’s all she cares about; 
ask ’er for an advance of five pounds; she’ll give it 
when she ’ears it is to get rid of yer child— they ’ates 
their nurses to be a-’ankering after their own, they 
likes them to be forgotten like ; they asks if the child 
is dead very often, and won’t engage them if it isn’t, 
so believe me she’ll give yer the money when yer tells 
’er that it is to give the child to someone who wants to 
adopt it. That’s what you ’as to say.’’ 

“And you’ll take the child off my hands for ever for 
five pounds?’’ 

“Yes; and if you likes to go out again as wet-nurse. 
I’ll take the second off yer ’ands too, and at the same 
price. ’ ’ 

“You wicked woman; oh, this is awful!’’ 

“Come, come. . . . What do you mean by 

talking to me like that? And because I offered to find 
someone who would adopt your child. ’ ’ 

“You did nothing of the kind; ever since I’ve been 
in your house you have been trying to get me to give 
you up my child to murder as you are murdering those 
poor innocents in the cradles. ’ ’ 

“It is a lie, but I don’t want no hargument with yer; 
pay me what you owe me and take yerself hoff. I 
want no more of yer, do you ’ear?’’ 

Esther did not shrink before her as Mrs. Spires 
expected. Clasping her baby more tightly, she said : 
“I’ve paid you what I owe you, you’ve had more than 
your due. Mrs. Rivers gave you ten shillings for a 
doctor which you didn’t send for. Let me go.” 

“Yes, when yer pays me.’’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


203 


“What’s all this row about?” said a tall, red-bearded 
man who had just come in; “no one takes their babies 
out of this ’ere ’ouse before they pays. Come now, 
come now, who are yer getting at? If yer thinks yer 
can come here insulting of my wife yer mistaken; 
yer’ve come to the wrong shop.” 

“I’ve paid all I owe,” said Esther. “You’re no 
better than murderers, but yer shan’t have my poor 
babe to murder for a five-pound note.” 

“Take back them words, or else I’ll do for yer; take 
them back,” he said, raising his fist. 

“Help, help, murder!” Esther screamed. Before 
the brute could seize her she had slipped past, but 
before she could scream again he had laid hold of her. 
Esther thought her last moment had come. 

“Let ’er go, let ’ergo,” cried Mrs. Spires, clinging on 
her husband’s arm. “We don’t want the perlice in ’ere. ’ ’ 

“Perlice! What do I care about the perlice? Let 
’er pay what she owes.” 

“Never mind, Tom; it is only a trifle. Let her go. 
Now then, take yer hook,” she said, turning to Esther; 
“we don’t want nothing to do with such as you.” 

With a growl the man loosed his hold, and feeling 
herself free Esther rushed through the open doorway. 
Her feet flew up the wooden steps and she ran out of 
the street. So shaken were her nerves that the sight 
of some men drinking in a public-house frightened her. 
She ran on again. There was a cab-stand in the next 
street, and to avoid the cabmen and the loafers she 
hastily crossed to the other side. Her heart beat 
violently, her thoughts were in disorder, and she 
walked a long while before she realised that she did not 
know where she was going. She stopped to ask the 


204 


ESTHER WATERS 


way, and then remembered there was no place where 
she might go. 

She would have to spend the night in the workhouse, 
and then? She did not know. . . . All sorts of 

thoughts came upon her unsolicited, and she walked on 
and on. At last she rested her burden on the parapet 
of a bridge, and saw the London night, blue and gold, 
vast water rolling, and the spectacle of the stars like 
a dream from which she could not disentangle her indi- 
viduality. Was she to die in the star-lit city, she and 
her child ; and why should such cruelty happen to her 
more than to the next one? Steadying her thoughts 
with an effort, she said, “Why not go to the work- 
house, only for the night? . . . She did not mind 

for herself, only she did not wish her boy to go there. 
But if God willed it. . . . “ 

She drew her shawl about her baby and tried once 
more to persuade herself into accepting the shelter of 
the workhouse. It seemed strange even to her that a 
pale, glassy moon should float high up in the sky, and 
that she should suffer ; and then she looked at the lights 
that fell like golden daggers from the Surrey shore 
into the river. What had she done to deserve the 
workhouse? Above all, what had the poor, innocent 
child done to deserve it? She felt that if she once 
entered the workhouse she would remain there. She 
and her child paupers for ever. “But what can I 
do?” she asked herself crazily, and sat down on one 
of the seats. 

A young man coming home from an evening party 
looked at her as he passed. She asked herself if she 
should run after him and tell him her story. Why 
should he not assist her? He could so easily spare it. 


ESTHER WATERS 


205 


Would he? But before she could decide to appeal to 
him he had called a passing hansom and was soon far 
away. Then looking at the windows of the great 
hotels, she thought of the folk there who could so 
easily save her from the workhouse if they knew. 
There must be many a kind heart behind those win- 
dows who would help her if she could only make 
known her trouble. But that was the difficulty. She 
could not make known her trouble ; she could not tell 
the misery she was enduring. She was so ignorant ; she 
could not make herself understood. She would be mis- 
taken for a common beggar. Nowhere would she find 
anyone to ILsten to her. Was this punishment for her 
wrong-doing? An idea of the blind cruelty of fate mad- 
dened her, and in the delirium of her misery she asked 
herself if it would not have been better, perhaps, if she 
had left him with Mrs. Spires. What indeed had the 
poor little fellow to live for? A young man in even- 
ing dress came towards her, looking so happy and 
easy in life, walking with long, swinging strides. He 
stopped and asked her if she was out for a walk. 

“No, sir; I’m out because I’ve no place to go.’’ 

“How’s that?’’ 

She told him the story of the baby farmer and he 
listened kindly, and she thought the necessary miracle 
was about to happen. But he only complimented her 
on her pluck and got up to go. Then she understood 
that he did not care to listen to sad stories, and a 
vagrant came and sat down. 

“The ‘copper,’ ’’ he said, “will be moving us on pres- 
ently. It don’t much matter; it’s too cold to get to 
sleep, and I think it will rain. My cough is that bad. ’ ’ 

She might beg a night’s lodging of Mrs. Jones. It 


206 


ESTHER WATERS 


was far away ; she did not think she could walk so far. 
Mrs. Jones might have left, then what would she do? 
The workhouse up there was much the same as the 
workhouse down here. Mrs. Jones couldn’t keep her 
for 'nothing, and there was no use trying for another 
situation as wet-nurse ; the hospital would not recom- 
mend her again. . . . She must go to the work- 

house. Then her thoughts wandered. She thought of 
her father, brothers, and sisters, who had gone to 
Australia. She wondered if they had yet arrived, if 

they ever thought of her, if She and her baby 

were on their way to the workhouse. They were 
going to become paupers. She looked at the vagrant 
— he had fallen asleep. He knew all about the work- 
house — should she ask him what it was like? He, too, 
was friendless. If he had a friend he would not be 
sleeping on the Embankment. Should she ask him? 
Poor chap, he was asleep. People were happy when 
they were asleep. 

A full moon floated high up in the sky, and the city 
was no more than a faint shadow on the glassy still- 
ness of the night ; and she longed to float away with 
the moon and the river, to be borne away out of sight 
of this world. 

Her baby grew heavy in her arms, and the vagrant, 
a bundle of rags thrown forward in a heap, slept at the 
other end of the bench. But she could not sleep, and 
the moon whirled on her miserable way. Then the 
glassy stillness was broken by the measured tramp of 
the policeman going his rounds. He directed her to 
Lambeth Workhouse, and as she walked towards West- 
minster she heard him rousing the vagrant and bidding 
him move onward. 


XX. 


Those who came to the workhouse for servants never 
offered more than fourteen pounds a year, and these 
wages would not pay for her baby’s keep out at nurse. 
Her friend the matron did all she could, but it was 
always fourteen pounds. “We cannot afford more.” 
At last an offer of sixteen pounds a year came from a 
tradesman in Chelsea; and the matron introduced 
Esther to Mrs. Lewis, a lonely widowed woman, who 
for five shillings a week would undertake to look after 
the child. This would leave Esther three pounds a 
year for dress ; three pounds a year for herself. 

What luck ! 

The shop was advantageously placed at a street cor- 
ner. Twelve feet of fronting on the King’s Road, and 
more than half that amount on the side street, exposed 
to every view wall papers and stained glass designs. 
The dwelling-house was over the shop ; the shop en- 
trance faced the kerb in the King’s Road. 

The Bingleys were Dissenters. They were ugly, 
and exacted the uttermost farthing from : their cus- 
tomers and their workpeople. Mrs. Bingley was a tall, 
gaunt woman, with little grey ringlets on either side 
of her face. She spoke in a sour, resolute voice, when 
she came down in a wrapper to superintend the cook- 
ing. On Sundays she wore a black satin, fastened 
with a cameo brooch, and round her neck a long gold 
chain. Then her manners were lofty, and when her 

207 


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ESTHER WATERS 


husband called “Mother,” she answered testily, 
“Don’t keep on mothering me.” She frequently 
stopped him to settle his necktie or collar. All the 
week he wore the same short jacket; on Sundays he 
appeared in an ill-fitting frock-coat. His long upper 
lip was clean shaven, but under his chin there grew a 
ring of discoloured hair, neither brown nor red, but 
the neutral tint that hair which does not turn grey 
acquires. When he spoke he opened his mouth wide, 
and seemed quite unashamed of the empty spaces and 
the three or four yellow fangs that remained. 

John, the elder of the two brothers, was a silent 
youth whose one passion seemed to be eavesdropping. 
He hung round doors in the hopes of overhearing his 
sister’s conversation and if he heard Esther and 
the little girl who helped Esther in her work talk- 
ing in the kitchen, he would steal cautiously half- 
way down the stairs. Esther often thought that 
his young woman must be sadly in want of a sweet- 
heart to take on with one such as he. “Come along, 
Amy,” he would cry, passing out before her; and not 
even at the end of a long walk did he offer her his 
arm; and they came strolling home just like boy and 
girl. 

Hubert, John’s younger brother, was quite different. 
He had escaped the family temperament, as he had 
escaped the family upper lip. He was the one spot of 
colour in a somewhat sombre household, and Esther 
liked to hear him call back to his mother, “All right, 
mother. I’ve got the key; no one need wait up for 
me. I’ll make the door fast.” 

“Oh, Hubert, don’t be later than eleven. You are 
not going out dancing again, are you? Your father 


ESTHER WATERS 209 

will have the electric bell put on the door, so that he 
may know when you come in. ’ ’ 

The four girls were all ruddy-complexioned and 
long upper-lipped. The eldest was the plainest; she 
kept her father’s books, and made the pastry. The 
second and third entertained vague hopes of marriage. 
The youngest was subject to hysterics, fits of some 
kind. 

The Bingleys’ own house was representative of their 
ideas, and the taste they had imposed upon the neigh- 
bourhood. The staircase was covered with white 
drugget, and the white enamelled walls had to be kept 
scrupulously clean. There were no flowers in the 
windows, but the springs of the blinds were always in 
perfect order. The drawing-room was furnished with 
substantial tables, cabinets and chairs, and antimacas- 
sars, long and, wide, and china ornaments and glass 
vases. There was a piano, and on this instrument, 
every Sunday evening, hymns were played by one of 
the young ladies, and the entire family sang in the 
chorus. 

It was into this house that Esther entered as general 
servant, with wages fixed at sixteen pounds a year. 
And for seventeen long hours every day, for two hun- 
dred and thirty hours every fortnight, she washed, she 
scrubbed, she cooked, she ran errands, with never a 
moment that she might call her own. Every second 
Sunday she was allowed out for four, perhaps for four 
and a half hours; the time fixed was from three to 
nine, but she was expected to be back in time to get 
the supper ready, and if it were many minutes later 
than nine there were complaints. 

She had no money. Her quarter’s wages would not 


iio 


ESTHER WATERS 


be due for another fortnight, and as they did not 
coincide with her Sunday out, she would not see her 
baby for another three weeks. She had not seen him 
for a month, and a great longing was in her heart to 
clasp him in her arms again, to feel his soft cheek 
against hers, to take his chubby legs and warm, fat 
feet in her hands. The four lovely hours of liberty 
would slip by, she would enter on another long fort- 
night of slavery. But no matter, only to get them, 
however quickly they sped from her. She resigned 
herself to her fate, her soul rose in revolt, and it grew 
hourly more difficult for her to renounce this pleasure. 
She must pawn her dress — the only decent dress she 
had left. No matter, she must see the child. She 
would be able to get the dress out of pawn when she 
was paid her wages. Then she would have to buy 
herself a pair of boots; and she owed Mrs. Lewis a 
good deal of money. Five shillings a week came to 
thirteen pound a year, leaving her three pound a year 
for boots and clothes, journeys back and forward, and 
everything the baby might want. Oh, it was not to 
be done — she never would be able to pull through. 
She dare not pawn her dress ; if she did she’d never be 
able to get it out again. At that moment something 
bright lying on the floor, under the basin-stand, caught 
her eye. It was half-a-crown. She looked at it, and 
as the temptation came into her heart to steal, she 
raised her eyes and looked round the room. 

She was in John’s room — in the sneak’s room. No 
one was about. She would have cut off one of her 
fingers for the coin. That half-crown meant pleasure 
and a happiness so tender and seductive that she closed 
her eyes for a moment. The half-crown she held 


ESTHER WATERS 


211 


between forefinger and thumb presented a ready solu- 
tion of the besetting difficulty. She threw out the 
insidious temptation, but it came quickly upon her 
again. If she did not take the half-crown she would 
not be able to go to Peckham on Sunday. She could 
replace the money where she found it when she was 
paid her wages. No one knew it was there; it had 
evidently rolled there, and having tumbled between 
the carpet and the wall had not been discovered. It 
had probably lain there for months, perhaps it was 
utterly forgotten. Besides, she need not take it now. 
It would be quite safe if she put it back in its place; on 
Sunday afternoon she would take it, and if she changed 

it at once It was not marked. She examined it 

all over. No, it was not marked. Then the desire 
paused, and she wondered how she, an honest girl, who 
had never harboured a dishonest thought in her life 
before, could desire to steal ; a bitter feeling of shame 
came upon her. 

It was a case of flying from temptation, and she left 
the room so hurriedly that John, who was spying in the 
passage, had not time either to slip downstairs or to 
hide in his brother’s room. They met face to face. 

“Oh, I beg pardon, sir, but I found this half-crown 
in your room.” 

“Well, there’s nothing wonderful in that. What 
are you so agitated about? I suppose you intended to 
return it to me?” 

‘ ‘ Intended to return it ! Of course. ’ ' 

An expression of hate and contempt leaped into her 
handsome grey eyes, and, like a dog’s, the red lip 
turned down. She suddenly understood that this 
pasty-faced, despicable chap had placed the coin 


212 


ESTHER WATERS 


where it might have accidentally rolled, where she 
would be likely to find it. He had complained that 
morning that she did not keep his room sufficiently 
clean! It was a carefully-laid plan, he was watching 
her all the while, and no doubt thought that it was his 
own indiscretion that had prevented her from falling 
into the snare. Without a word Esther dropped the 
half-crown at his feet and returned to her work ; and 
all the time she remained in her present situation she 
persistently refused to speak to him ; she brought him 
what he asked for, but never answered him, even with 
a Yes or No. 

It was during the few minutes’ rest after dinner that 
the burden of the day pressed heaviest upon her; then 
a painful weariness grew into her limbs, and it seemed 
impossible to summon strength and will to beat car- 
pets or sweep down the stairs. But if she were not 
moving about before the clock struck, Mrs. Bingley 
came down to the kitchen. 

“Now, Esther, is there nothing for you to do?’’ 

And again, about eight o’clock, she felt too tired to 
bear the weight of her own flesh. She had passed 
through fourteen hours of almost unintermittent toil, 
and it seemed to her that she would never be able to 
summon up sufficient courage to get through the last 
three hours. It was this last summit that taxed all her 
strength and all her will. Even the rest that awaited 
her at eleven o’clock was blighted by the knowledge 
of the day that was coming ; and its cruel hours, long 
and lean and hollow-eyed, stared at her through the 
darkness. She was often too tired to rest, and rolled 
over and over in her miserable garret bed, her whole 
body aching. Toil crushed all that was human out of 


ESTHER WATERS 


213 


her; even her baby was growing indifferent to her. If 
it were to die ! She did not desire her baby’s death, 
but she could not forget what the baby-farmer had told 
her — the burden would not become lighter, it would 
become heavier and heavier. What would become of 
her? Was there no hope? She buried her face in her 
pillow, seeking to escape from the passion of her 
despair. She was an unfortunate girl, and had missed 
all her chances. 

In the six months she had spent in the house in 
Chelsea her nature had been strained to the uttermost, 
and what we call chance now came to decide the course 
of her destiny. The fight between circumstances and 
character had gone till now in favour of character, but 
circumstances must call up no further forces against 
character. A hair would turn the scale either way. 
One morning she was startled out of her sleep by a 
loud knocking at the door. It was Mrs. Bingley, who 
had come to ask her if she knew what time it was. It 
was nearly seven o’clock. But Mrs. Bingley could not 
blame her much, having herself forgotten to put on the 
electric bell, and Esther hurried through her dressing. 
But in hurrying she happened to tread on her dress, 
tearing it right across. It was most unfortunate, and 
just when she was most in a hurry. She held up the 
torn skirt. It was a poor, frayed, worn-out rag that 
would hardly bear mending again. Her mistress was 
calling her; there was nothing for it but to run down 
and tell her what had happened. 

“Haven’t you got another dress that you can put 
on?’’ 

“No, ma’am.’’ 

“Really, I can’t have you going to the door in that 


214 


ESTHER WATERS 


tiling. You don’t do credit to my house; you must 
get yourself a new dress at once. ’ ’ 

Esther muttered that she had no money to buy one. 
“Then I don’t know what you do with your money. ’’ 
“What I do with my wages is my affair; I’ve plenty 
of use for my money.’* 

“I cannot allow any servant of mine to speak to me 
like that.” 

Esther did not answer, and Mrs. Bingley continued — 
“It is my duty to know what you do with your 
money, and to see that you do not spend it in any 
wrong way. I am responsible for your moral wel- 
fare.” 

“Then, ma’am, I think I had better leave you.” 
“Leave me, because I don’t wish you to spend your 
money wrongfully, because I know the temptations 
that a young girl’s life is beset with?” 

“There ain’t much chance of temptation for them 
who work seventeen hours a day. ’ ’ 

“Esther, you seem to forget ” 

“No, ma’am; but there’s no use talking about what 
I do with my money — there are other reasons; the 
place is too hard a one. I’ve felt it so for some time, 
ma’am. My health ain’t equal to it.” 

Once she had spoken, Esther showed no disposition 
to retract, and she steadily resisted all Mrs. Bingley’s 
solicitations to remain with her. She knew the risk 
she was running in leaving her situation, and yet she 
felt she must yield to an instinct like that which impels 
the hunted animal to leave the cover and seek safety 
in the open country. Her whole body cried out for 
rest, she must have rest ; that was the thing that must 
be. Mrs. Lewis would keep her and her baby for 


ESTHER WATERS 


215 


twelve shillings a week ; the present was the Christmas 
quarter, and she was richer by five and twenty shillings 
than she had been before. Mrs. Bingley had given her 
ten shillings, Mr. Hubert five, and the other ten had 
been contributed by the four young ladies. Out of 
this money she hoped to be able to buy a dress and a 
pair of boots, as well as a fortnight’s rest with Mrs. 
Lewis. She had determined on her plans some three 
weeks before her month’s warning would expire, and 
henceforth the mountainous days of her servitude drew 
out interminably, seeming more than ever exhausting, 
and the longing in her heart to be free at times rose 
to her head, and her brain turned as if in delirium. 
Every time she sat down to a meal she remembered 
she was so many hours nearer to rest — a fortnight’s 
rest — she could not afford more; but in her present 
slavery that fortnight seemed at once as a paradise and 
an eternity. Her only fear was that her health might 
give way, and that she would be laid up during the 
time she intended for rest — personal rest. Her baby 
was lost sight of. Even a mother demands something 
in return for her love, and in the last year Jackie had 
taken much and given nothing. But when she opened 
Mrs. Lewis’s door he came running to her, calling her 
Mummie ; and the immediate preference he showed for 
her, climbing on her knees instead of on Mrs. Lewis’s, 
was a fresh sowing of love in the mother’s heart. 

They were in the midst of those few days of sunny 
weather which come in January, deluding us so with 
their brightness and warmth that we look round for 
roses and are astonished to see the earth bare of 
flowers. And these bright afternoons Esther spent 
entirely with Jackie. At the top of the hill their way 


2i6 


ESTHER WATERS 


led through a narrow passage between a brick wall and 
a high paling. She had always to carry him through 
this passage, for the ground there was sloppy and 
dirty, and the child wanted to stop to watch the pigs 
through the chinks in the boards. But when they 
came to the smooth, wide, high roads overlooking the 
valley, she put him down, and he would run on ahead, 
crying, “Turn for a walk, Mummie, turn along,” and 
his little feet went so quickly beneath his frock that it 
seemed as if he were on wheels. She followed, 
often forced to break into a run, tremulous lest he 
should fall. They descended the hill into the orna- 
mental park, and spent happy hours amid geometrically- 
designed flower-beds and curving walks. She ventured 
with him as far as the old Dulwich village, and they 
strolled through the long street. Behind the street 
were low-lying, shiftless fields, intersected with broken 
hedges. And when Jackie called to his mother to 
carry him, she rejoiced in the labour of his weight; 
and when he grew too heavy, she rested on the farm- 
gate, and looked into the vague lowlands. And when 
the chill of night awoke her from her dream she 
clasped Jackie to her bosom and turned towards 
home, very soon to lose herself again in another tide 
of happiness. 

The evenings, too, were charming. When the can- 
dles were lighted, and tea was on the table, Esther sat 
with the dozing child on her knee, looking into the 
flickering fire, her mind a reverie, occasionally broken 
by the homely talk of her companion ; and when the 
baby was laid in his cot she took up her sewing — she 
was making herself a new dress; or else the great 
kettle was steaming on the hob, and the women stood 


ESTHER WATERS 


217 


over the washing-tubs. On the following evening they 
worked on either side of the ironing-table, the candle 
burning brightly and their vague woman’s chatter 
sounding pleasant in the hush of the little cottage. A 
little after nine they were in bed, and so the days went 
softly, like happy, trivial dreams. It was not till the 
end of the third week that Mrs. Lewis would hear of 
Esther looking out for another place. And then 
Esther was surprised at her good fortune. A friend of 
Mrs. Lewis’s knew a servant who was leaving her situa- 
tion in the West End of London. Esther got the 
address, and went next day after the place. She was 
fortunate enough to obtain it, and her mistress seemed 
well satisfied with her. But one day in the beginning 
of her second year of service she was told that her mis- 
tress wished to speak to her in the dining-room. 

“I fancy,” said the cook, “that it is about that baby 
of yours; they’re very strict here.” 

Mrs. Trubner was sitting on a low wicker chair by 
the fire. She was a large woman with eagle features. 
Her eyesight had been failing for some years, and her 
maid was reading to her. The maid closed the book 
and left the room. 

“It has come to my knowledge. Waters, that you 
have a child. You’re not a married woman, I be- 
lieve?” 

“I’ve been unfortunate; I’ve a child, but that don’t 
make no difference so long as I gives satisfaction in my 
work. I don’t think that the cook has complained, 
ma’am.” 

“No, the cook hasn’t complained, but had I known 
this I don’t think I should have engaged you. In the 
character which you showed me, Mrs. Barfield said 


2I8 


ESTHER WATERS 


that she believed you to be a thoroughly religious girl 
at heart. ’ ’ 

“And I hope I am that, ma’am. I’m truly sorry for 
my fault. I’ve, suffered a great deal.” 

“So you all say; but supposing it were to happen 

again,, and in my house? Supposing ’’ 

“Then don’t you think, ma’am, there is repentance 

and forgiveness? Our Lord said ’’ 

“You ought to have told me; and as for Mrs. Bar- 
field, her conduct is most reprehensible. ’ ’ 

“Then, ma’am, would you prevent every poor girl 
who has had a misfortune from earning her bread? If 
they was all like you there would be more girls who’d 
do away with themselves and their babies. You don’t 
know how hard pressed we are. The baby-farmer 
says, ‘Give me five pounds and I’ll find a good woman 
who wants a little one, and you shall hear no more 
about it. ’ Them very words were said to me. I took 
him away and hoped to be able to rear him, but if I’m 

to lose my situations ” 

‘ ‘ I should be sorry to prevent anyone from earning 
their bread ” 

“You’re a mother yourself, ma’am, and you know 
what it is.” 

“Really, it’s quite different. ... I don’t know 
what you mean. Waters.” 

“I mean that if I am to lose my situations on 
account of my baby, I don’t know what will become of 

me. If I give satisfaction ” 

At that moment Mr. Trubner entered. He was a 
large, stout man, with his mother’s aquiline features. 
He arrived with his glasses on his nose, and slightly 
out of breath. 


ESTHER WATERS 


219 


“Oh, oh, I didn’t know, mother,” he blurted out, 
and was about to withdraw when Mrs. Trubner said — 

“This is the new servant whom that lady in Sussex 
recommended.” 

Esther saw a look of instinctive repulsion come over 
his face. 

“I’ll leave you to settle with her, mother.” 

“I must speak to you, Harold — I must.” 

“I really can’t; I know nothing of this matter.” 

He tried to leave the room, and when his mother 
stopped him he said testily, “Well, what is it? I am 

very busy just now, and ” Mrs. Trubner told 

Esther to wait in the passage. 

“Well,” said Mr. Trubner, “have you discharged 
her? I leave all these things to you. ” 

‘ ‘ She has told me her story ; she is trying to bring up 
her child on her wages. . . . She said if she was 

kept from earning her bread she didn’t know what 
would become of her. Her position is a very terrible 
one. ’ ’ 

“I know that. . . . But we can’t have loose 

women about the place. They all can tell a fine story; 
the world is full of impostors. ’ ’ 

“I don’t think the girl is an impostor.” 

“Very likely not, but everyone has a right to protect 
themselves. ’ ’ 

“Don’t speak so loud, Harold,” said Mrs. Trubner, 
lowering her voice. “Remember her child is depend- 
ent upon her; if we send her away we don’t know 
what may happen. I’ll pay her a month’s wages if 
you like, but you must take the responsibility. ’ ’ 

“I won’t take any responsibility in the matter. If 
she had been here two years — she has only been here 


220 


ESTHER WATERS 


a year — not so much more — and had proved a satisfac- 
tory servant, I don’t say that we’d be justified in send- 
ing her away. . . . There are plenty of good girls 

who want a situation as much as she. I don’t see why 
we should harbour loose women when there are so 
many deserving cases.” 

“Then you want me to send her away?” 

“I don’t want to interfere; you ought to know how 
to act. Supposing the same thing were to happen 
again? My cousins, young men, coming to the 
house ” 

“But she won’t see them.” 

“Do as you like; it is your business, not mine. It 
doesn’t matter to me, so long as I’m not interfered 
with; keep her if you like. You ought to have looked 
into her character more closely before you engaged 
her. I think that the lady who recommended her 
ought to be written to very sharply. ’ ’ 

They had forgotten to close the door, and Esther 
stood in the passage burning and choking with shame. 

“It is a strange thing that religion should make 
some people so unfeeling,” Esther thought as she left 
Onslow Square. 

It was necessary to keep her child secret, and in her 
next situation she shunned intimacy with her fellow- 
servants, and was so strict in her conduct that she 
exposed herself to their sneers. She dreaded the 
remark that she always went out alone, and often 
arrived at the cottage breathless with fear and expec- 
tation — at a cottage where a little boy stood by a stout 
middle-aged woman, turning over the pages of the 
illustrated papers that his mother had brought him; 
she had no money to buy him toys. Dropping the 


ESTHER WATERS 


221 


Illustrated London News, he cried, “Here is Mum- 
mie, ” and ran to her with outstretched arms. Ah, 
what an embrace ! Mrs. Lewis continued her sewing, 
and for an hour or more Esther told about her fellow- 
servants, about the people she lived with, the conver- 
sation interrupted by the child calling his mother’s 
attention to the pictures, or by the delicate intrusion 
of his little hand into hers. 

Her clothes were her great difficulty, and she often 
thought that she would rather go back to the slavery 
of the house in Chelsea than bear the humiliation of 
going out any longer on Sunday in the old things that 
the servants had seen her in for eight or nine months 
or more. She was made to feel that she was the low- 
est of the low — the servant of servants. She had to 
accept everybody’s sneer and everybody’s bad lan- 
guage, and oftentimes gross familiarity, in order to 
avoid arguments and disputes which might endanger 
her situation. She had to shut her eyes to the thefts 
of cooks ; she had to fetch them drink, and to do their 
work when they were unable to do it themselves. But 
there was no help for it. She could not pick and 
choose where she would live, and any wages above six- 
teen pound a year she must always accept, and put up 
with whatever inconvenience she might meet. 

Hers is an heroic adventure if one considers it — a 
mother’s fight for the life of her child against all the 
forces that civilisation arrays against the lowly and the 
illegitimate. She is in a situation to-day, but on what 
security does she hold it? She is strangely dependent 
on her own health, and still more upon the fortunes 
and the personal caprice of her employers; and she 
realised the perils of her life when an outcast mother 


222 


ESTHER WATERS 


at the comer of the street, stretching out of her rags a 
brown hand and arm, asked alms for the sake of the 
little children. Esther remembered then that three 
months out of a situation and she too would be on the 
street as a flower-seller, match-seller, or 

It did not seem, however, that any of these fears 
were to be realised. Her luck had mended ; for nearly 
two years she had been living with some rich people 
in the West End ; she liked her mistress and was on 
good terms with her fellow servants, and had it not 
been for an accident she could have kept this situation. 
The young gentlemen had come home for their sum- 
mer holidays; she had stepped aside to let Master 
Harry pass her on the stairs. But he did not go by, 
and there was a strange smile on his face. 

“Look here, Esther, I’m awfully fond of you. You 
are the prettiest girl I’ve ever seen. Come out for a 
walk with me next Sunday.’’ 

“Master Harry, I’m surprised at you; will you let 
me go by at once?’’ 

There was no one near, the house was silent, and the 
boy stood on the step above her. He tried to throw 
his arm round her waist, but she shook him off and 
went up to her room calm with indignation. A few 
days afterward she suddenly became aware that he was 
following her in the street. She turned sharply upon 
him. 

“Master Harry, I know that this is only a little fool- 
ishness on your part, but if you don’t leave off I shall 
lose my situation, and I’m sure you don’t want to do 
me an injury.’’ 

Master Harry seemed sorry, and he promised not to 
follow her in the street again. And never thinking 


ESTHER WATERS 


223 


that it was he who had written the letter she received 
a few days after, she asked Annie, the upper house- 
maid, to read it. It contained reference to meetings 
and unalterable affection, and it concluded with a 
promise to marry her if she lost her situation through 
his fault. Esther listened like one stunned. A school- 
boy’s folly, the first silly sentimentality, of a boy, a 
thing lighter than the lightest leaf that falls, had 
brought disaster upon her. 

If Annie had not seen the letter she might have 
been able to get the boy to listen to reason; but 
Annie had seen the letter, and Annie could not be 
trusted. The story would be sure to come out, and 
then she would lose her character as well as her situa- 
tion. It was a great pity. Her mistress had promised 
to have her taught cooking at South Kensington, and 
a cook’s wages would secure her and her child against 
all ordinary accidents. She would never get such a 
chance again, and would remain a kitchen-maid to the 
end of her days. And acting on the impulse of the 
moment she went straight to the drawing-room. Her 
mistress was alone, and Esther handed her the letter. 
“I thought you had better see this at once, ma’am. I 
did not want you to think it was my fault. Of course 
the young gentleman means no harm. ’ ’ 

“Has anyone seen this letter?” 

“I showed it to Annie. I’m no scholar myself, and 
the writing was difficult. ’ ’ 

“You have no reason for supposing How often 

did Master Harry speak to you in this way?” 

“Only twice, ma’am.” 

“Of course it is only a little foolishness. I needn’t 
say that he doesn’t mean what he says. ” 


224 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I told him, ma’am, that if he continued I should 
lose my situation.” 

“I’m sorry to part with you, Esther, but I really 
think that the best way will be for you to leave. I am 
much obliged to you for showing me this letter. 
Master Harry, you see, says that he is going away to 
the country for a week. He left this morning. So I 
really think that a month’s wages will settle matters 
nicely. You are an excellent servant, and I shall be 
glad to recommend you. ’ ’ 

Then Esther heard her mistress mutter something 
about the danger of good-looking servants. And 
Esther was paid a month’s wages, and left that after- 
noon. 


XXL 


It was the beginning of August, and London yawned 
in every street ; the dust blew unslaked, and a little 
cloud curled and disappeared over the crest of the hill 
at Hyde Park Corner; the streets and St. George’s 
Place looked out with blind, white eyes ; and in the 
deserted Park the trees tossed their foliage restlessly, 
as if they wearied and missed the fashion of their 
season. And all through Park Lane and Mayfair, 
caretakers and gaunt cats were the traces that the caste 
on which Esther depended had left of its departed pres- 
ence. She was coming from the Alexandra Hotel, 
where she had heard a kitchen-maid was wanted. 
Mrs. Lewis had urged her to wait until people began 
to come back to town. Good situations were rarely 
obtainable in the summer months; it would be bad 
policy to take a bad one, even if it were only for a 
while. Besides, she had saved a little money, and, 
feeling that she required a rest, had determined to take 
this advice. But as luck would have it Jackie fell ill 
before she had been at Dulwich a week. His illness 
made a big hole in her savings, and it had become evi- 
dent that she would have to set to work and at once. 

She turned into the park. She was going north, to 
a registry office near Oxford Street, which Mrs. Lewis 
had recommended. Holborn Row was difficult to 
find, and she had to ask the way very often, but she 
suddenly knew that she was in the right street by the 

225 


226 


ESTHER WATERS 


number of servant-girls going and coming from the 
office, and in company with five others Esther 
ascended a gloomy little staircase. The office was on 
the first floor. The doors were open, and they passed 
into a special odour of poverty, as it were, into an 
atmosphere of mean interests. 

Benches covered with red plush were on either side, 
and these were occupied by fifteen or twenty poorly- 
dressed women. A little old woman, very white and 
pale, stood near the window recounting her misfor- 
tunes to no one in particular. 

“I lived with her more than thirty years; I brought 
up all the children. I entered her service as nurse, 
and when the children grew up I was given the man- 
agement of everything. For the last fifteen years my 
mistress was a confirmed invalid. She entrusted 
everything to me. Oftentimes she took my hand and 
said, ‘You are a good creature, Holmes, you mustn’t 
think of leaving me ; how should I get on without you?’ 
But when she died they had to part with me; they 
said they were very sorry, and wouldn’t have thought 
of doing so, only they were afraid I was getting too 
old for the work. I daresay I was wrong to stop so 
long in one situation. I shouldn’t have done so, but 
she always used to say, ‘You mustn’t leave us; we 
never shall be able to get on without you. ’ ’ ’ 

At that moment the secretary, an alert young woman- 
with a decisive voice, came through the folding doors. 

“I will not have all this talking,” she said. Her 
quick eyes fell on the little old woman, and she came 
forward a few steps. ‘‘What, you here again. Miss 
Holmes? I’ve told you that when I hear of anything 
that will suit you I’ll write.” 


ESTHER WATERS ^ 2^7 

“So you said, Miss, but my little savings are running 
short. Fm being pressed for my rent. “ 

“I can’t help that; when I hear of anything Fll 
write. But I can’t have you coming here ever)^ third 
day wasting my time; now run along.” And having 
made casual remarks about the absurdity of people of 
that age coming after situations, she called three or 
four women to her desk, of whom Esther was one. 
She examined them critically, and seemed especially 
satisfied with Esther’s appearance. 

“It will be difficult,” she said, “to find you the situ- 
ation you want before people begin to return to town. 
If you were only an inch or two taller I could get you 
a dozen places as housemaid ; tall servants are all the 
fashion, and you are the right age — about five-and- 
twenty.” 

Esther left a dozen stamps with her, and soon after 
she began to receive letters containing the addresses of 
ladies who required servants. They were of all sorts, 
for the secretary seemed to exercise hardly any dis- 
crimination, and Esther was sent on long journeys 
from Brixton to Notting Hill to visit poor people who 
could hardly afford a maid-of-all-work. These useless 
journeys were very fatiguing. Sometimes she was 
asked to call at a house in Bayswater, and thence she 
had to go to High Street, Kensington, or Earl’s Court; 
a third address might be in Chelsea. She could only 
guess which was the best chance, and while she was 
hesitating the situation might be given away. Very 
often the ladies were out, and she was asked to call 
later in the day. These casual hours she spent in the 
parks, mending Jackie’s socks or hemming pocket 
handkerchiefs, so she was frequently delayed till even- 


228 


ESTHER WATERS 


ing ; and in the mildness of the summer twilight, with 
some fresh disappointment lying heavy on her heart, 
she made her way from the Marble Arch round the 
barren Serpentine into Piccadilly, with its stream of 
light beginning in the sunset. 

And standing at the kerb of Piccadilly Circus, wait- 
ing for a ’bus to take her to Ludgate Hill Station, the 
girl grew conscious of the moving multitude that filled 
the streets. The great restaurants rose up calm and 
violet in the evening sky, the Caf6 Monico, with its air 
of French newspapers and Italian wines; and before 
the grey fagade of the fashionable Criterion hansoms 
stopped and dinner parties walked across the pave- 
ment. The fine weather had brought the women up 
earlier than usual from the suburbs. They came up 
the long road from Fulham, with white dresses floating 
from their hips, and feather boas waving a few inches 
from the pavement. But through this elegant disguise 
Esther could pick out the servant-girls. Their stories 
were her story. They had been deserted, as she had 
been ; and perhaps each had a child to support, only 
they had not been so lucky as she had been in finding 
situations. 

But now luck seemed to have deserted her. It was 
the middle of September and she had not yet been able 
to find the situation she wanted ; and it had become 
more and more distressing to her to refuse sixteen 
pound a year. She had calculated it all out, and noth- 
ing less than eighteen pound was of any use to her. 
With eighteen pound and a kind mistress who would 
give her an old dress occasionally she could do very 
well. But if she didn’t find these two pound she did 
not know what she should do. She might drag on for 


ESTHER WATERS 


229 


a time on sixteen pound, but such wages would drive 
her in the end into the workhouse. If it were not for 
the child! But she would never desert her darling 
boy, who loved her so dearly, come what might. A 
sudden imagination let her see him playing in the 
little street, waiting for her to come home, and her 
love for him went to her head like madness. She 
wondered at herself; it seemed almost unnatural to 
love anything as she did this child. 

Then, in a shiver of fear, determined to save her 
’bus fare, she made her way through Leicester Square. 
She was a good-looking girl, who hastened her steps 
when addressed by a passer-by or crossed the roadway 
in sullen indignation, and who looked in contempt on 
the silks and satins which turned into the Empire, 
and she seemed to lose heart utterly. She had been 
walking all day and had not tasted food since the morn- 
ing, and the weakness of the flesh brought a sudden 
weakness of the spirit. She felt that she could strug- 
gle no more, that the whole world was against her — 
she felt that she must have food and drink and rest. 
All this London tempted her, and the cup was at her 
lips. A young man in evening clothes had spoken to 
her. His voice was soft, the look in his eyes seemed 
kindly. 

Thinking of the circumstances ten minutes later it 
seemed to her that she had intended to answer him. 
But she was now at Charing Cross. There was a 
lightness, an emptiness in her head which she could 
not overcome, and the crowd appeared to her like a 
blurred, noisy dream. And then the dizziness left her, 
and she realised the temptation she had escaped. 
Here, as in Piccadilly, she could pick out the servant- 


230 


ESTHER WATERS 


girls; but here their service was yesterday’s lodging- 
house — poor and dissipated girls, dressed in vague 
clothes fixed with hazardous pins. Two young women 
strolled in front of her. They hung on each other’s 
arms, talking lazily. They had just come out of an 
eating-house, and a happy digestion was in their eyes. 
The skirt on the outside was a soiled mauve, and the 
bodice that went with it was a soiled chocolate. A 
broken yellow plume hung out of a battered hat. The 
skirt on the inside was a dim green, and little was left 
of the cotton velvet jacket but the cotton. A girl of 
sixteen walking sturdily, like a little man, crossed the 
road, her left hand thrust deep into the pocket of her 
red cashmere dress. She wore on her shoulders a strip 
of beaded mantle ; her hair was plaited and tied with a 
red ribbon. Corpulent women passed, their eyes 
liquid with invitation; and the huge bar-loafer, the 
man of fifty, the hooked nose and the waxed mous- 
tache, stood at the door of a restaurant, passing the 
women in review. 

A true London of the water’s edge — a London of 
theatres, music-halls, wine-shops, public-houses — the 
walls painted various colours, nailed over with huge 
gold lettering ; the pale air woven with delicate wire, 
a gossamer web underneath which the crowd moved 
like lazy flies, one half watching the perforated spire 
of St. Mary’s, and all the City spires behind it now 
growing cold in the east, the other half seeing the 
spire of St. Martin’s above the chimney-pots aloft in a 
sky of cream pink. Stalwart policemen urged along 
groups of slattern boys and girls; and after vulgar 
remonstrance these took the hint and disappeared 
down strange passages. Suddenly Esther came face 


ESTHER WATERS 


231 


to face with a woman whom she recognised as Mar- 
garet Gale. 

“What, is it you, Margaret?" 

“Yes, it is me all right. What are you doing up 
here? Got tired of service? Come and have a drink, 
old gal. ’ ’ 

“No, thank you; I’m glad to have seen you, Mar- 
garet, but I’ve a train to catch.’’ 

“That won’t do,’’ said Margaret, catching her by the 
arm ; “we must have a drink and a talk over old times. ’’ 

Esther felt that if she did not have something she 
would faint before she reached Ludgate Hill, and Mar- 
garet led the way through the public-house, opening 
all the varnished doors, seeking a quiet corner. 
“What’s the matter?’’ she said, startled at the pallor of 
Esther’s face. 

“Only a little faintness; I’ve not had anything to 
eat all day. ” 

“Quick, quick, four of brandy and some water,’’ 
Margaret cried to the barman, and a moment after she 
was holding the glass to her friend’s lips. “Not had 
anything to eat all day, dear? Then we’ll have a bite 
and a sup together. I feel a bit peckish myself. Two 
sausages and two rolls and butter,’’ she cried. Then 
the women had a long talk. Margaret told Esther the 
story of her misfortune. The Barfields were all broken 
up. They had been very unlucky racing, and when 
the servants got the sack Margaret had come up to 
London. She had been in several situations. Even- 
tually, one of her masters had got her into trouble, his 
wife had turned her out neck and crop, and what was 
she to do? Then Esther told how Master Harry had 
lost her her situation. 


232 


ESTHER WATERS 


“And you left like that? Well I never! The better 
one behaves the worse one gets treated, and them that 
goes on with service find themselves in the end with- 
out as much as will buy them a Sunday dinner,” 

Margaret insisted on accompanying Esther, and 
they walked together as far as Wellington Street. “I 
can’t go any further,” and pointing to where London 
seemed to end in a piece of desolate sky, she said, “I 
live on the other side, in Stamford Street. You might 
come and see me. If you ever get tired of service 
you’ll get decent rooms there.” 

Bad weather followed fine, and under a streaming 
umbrella Esther went from one address to another, her 
damp skirts clinging about her and her boots clogged 
with mud. She looked upon the change in the weather 
as unfortunate, for in getting a situation so much 
depended on personal appearance and cheerfulness of 
manner ; and it is difficult to seem a right and tidy girl 
after two miles’ walk through the rain. 

One lady told Esther that she liked tall servants, 
another said she never engaged good-looking girls, and 
another place that would have suited her was lost 
through unconsciously answering that she was chapel. 
The lady would have nothing in her house but church. 
Then there were the disappointments occasioned by 
the letters which she received from people who she 
thought would have engaged her, saying they were 
sorry, but that they had seen some one whom they 
liked better. 

Another week passed and Esther had to pawn her 
clothes to get money for her train fare to London, and 
to keep the registry office supplied with stamps. Her 
prospects had begun to seem quite hopeless, and she 


ESTHER WATERS 


233 


lay awake thinking that she and Jackie must go back 
to the workhouse. They could not stop on at Mrs. 
Lewis’s much longer. Mrs. Lewis had been very good 
to them, but Esther owed her two weeks’ money. 
What was to be done? She had heard of charitable 
institutions, but she was an ignorant girl and did not 
know how to make the necessary inquiries. Oh, the 
want of a little money — of a very little money; the 
thought beat into her brain. For just enough to hold 
on till the people came back to town. 

One day Mrs. Lewis, who read the newspapers for 
her, came to her with an advertisement which she said 
seemed to read like a very likely chance. Esther 
looked at the pence which remained out of the last 
dress that she had pawned. 

“I’m afraid,’’ she said, “it will turn out like the 
others; I’m out of my luck. ’’ 

“Don’t say that,’’ said Mrs. Lewis; “keep your 
courage up; I’ll stick to you as long as I can.’’ 

The women had a good cry in each other’s arms, and 
then Mrs. Lewis advised Esther to take the situation, 
even if it were no more than sixteen. “A lot can be 
done by constant saving, and if she gives yer ’er 
dresses and ten shillings for a Christmas-box, I don’t 
see why you should not pull through. The baby shan’t 
cost you more than five shillings a week till you get a 
situation as plain cook. Here is the address — Miss 
Rice, Avondale Road, West Kensington. ’ ’ 


XXIL 


Avondale Road was an obscure corner of the suburb 
— obscure, for it had just sprung into existence. The 
scaffolding that had built it now littered an adjoining 
field, where in a few months it would rise about 
Horsely Gardens, whose red gables and tiled upper 
walls will correspond unfailingly with those of Avon- 
dale Road. Nowhere in this neighbourhood could 
Esther detect signs of eighteen pounds a year. Scan- 
ning the Venetian blinds of the single drawing-room 
window, she said to herself, “Hot joint to-day, cold the 
next.” She noted the trim iron railings and the spare 
shrubs, and raising her eyes she saw the tiny gable 
windows of the cupboard-like rooms where the single 
servant kept in these houses slept. 

A few steps more brought her to 41, the corner house. 
The thin passage and the meagre staircase confirmed 
Esther in the impression she had received from the 
aspect of the street ; and she felt that the place was 
more suitable to the gaunt woman with iron-grey hair 
who waited in the passage. This woman looked appre- 
hensively at Esther, and when Esther said that she 
had come after the place a painful change of expres- 
sion passed over her face, and she said — 

“You’ll get it; I’m too old for anything but char- 
ing. How much are you going to ask?’’ 

“I can’t take less than sixteen.’’ 

“Sixteen! I used to get that once; I’d be glad 
234 


ESTHER WATERS 


235 


enough to get twelve now. You can’t think of sixteen 
once you’ve turned forty, and I’ve lost my teeth, and 
they means a couple of pound off. ’ ’ 

Then the door opened, and a woman’s voice called 
to the gaunt woman to come in. She went in, and 
Esther breathed a prayer that she might not be 
engaged. A minute intervened, and the gaunt woman 
came out ; there were tears in her eyes, and she whis- 
pered to Esther as she passed, “No good; I told you 
so. I’m too old for anything but charing.’’ The 
abruptness of the interview suggested a hard mistress, 
and Esther was surprised to find herself in the pres- 
ence of a slim lady, about seven-and-thirty, whose 
small grey eyes seemed to express a kind and gentle 
nature. As she stood speaking to her, Esther saw a 
tall glass filled with chrysanthemums and a large writ- 
ing-table covered with books and papers. There was 
a bookcase, and in place of the usual folding-doors, a 
bead curtain hung between the rooms. 

The room almost said that the occupant was a spin- 
ster and a writer, and Esther remembered that she had 
noticed even at the time Miss Rice’s manuscript, it was 
such a beautiful clear round hand, and it lay on the 
table, ready to be continued the moment she should 
have settled with her. 

“I saw your advertisement in the paper, miss; I’ve 
come after the situation.’’ 

“You are used to service?’’ 

“Yes, miss. I’ve had several situations in gen- 
tlemen’s families, and have excellent characters 
from them all.’’ Then Esther related the story of 
her situations, and Miss Rice put up her glasses and 
her grey eyes smiled. She seemed pleased with the 


236 


ESTHER WATERS. 


somewhat rugged but pleasant-featured girl before 
her. 

“I live alone,” she said; “the place is an easy one, 
and if the wages satisfy you, I think you will suit me 
very well. My servant, who has been with me some 
years, is leaving me to be married. ’ ’ 

“What are the wages, miss?” 

“Fourteen pounds a year.” 

“I’m afraid, miss, there would be no use my taking 
the place; I’ve so many calls on my money that I 
could not manage on fourteen pounds. I’m very 
sorry, for I feel sure I should like to live with you, 
miss.” 

But what was the good of taking the place? She 
could not possibly manage on fourteen, even if Miss 
Rice did give her a dress occasionally, and that didn’t 
look likely. All her strength seemed to give way 
under her misfortune, and it was with difficulty that 
she restrained her tears. 

“I think we should suit each other,” Miss Rice said 
reflectivel5^ “I should like to have you for my serv- 
ant if I could afford it. How much would you take?” 

“Situated as I am, miss, I could not take less than 
sixteen. I’ve been used to eighteen.” 

“Sixteen pounds is more than I can afford, but I’ll 
think it over. Give me your. name and address.” 

“Esther Waters, 13 Poplar Road, Dulwich.” 

As Esther turned to go she became aware of the 
kindness of the eyes that looked at her. Miss Rice 
said — 

“I’m afraid you’re in trouble. ... Sit down; 
tell me about it.” 

“No, miss, what’s the use?” But Miss Rice looked 


ESTHER WATERS 


237 


at her so kindly that Esther could not restrain herself. 
“There’s nothing for it,” she said, “but to go back to 
the workhouse. ’ ’ 

“But why should you go to the workhouse? I offer 
you fourteen pounds a year and everything found.” 

“You see, miss. I’ve a baby; we’ve been in the 
workhouse already ; I had to go there the night I left 
my situation to get him away from Mrs. Spires ; she 
wanted to kill him; she’d have done it for five pounds 
— that’s the price. But, miss, my story is not one that 
can be told to a lady such as you. ’ ’ 

“I think I’m old enough to listen to your story; sit 
down, and tell it to me.” 

And all the while Miss Rice’s eyes were filled with 
tenderness and pity. 

“A veiy sad story — ^just such a story as happens 
every day. But you have been punished, you have 
indeed.” 

“Yes, miss, I think I have; and after all these years 
of striving it is hard to have to take him back to the 
workhouse. Not that I want to give out that I was 
badly treated there, but it is the child I’m thinking of. 
He was then a little baby and it didn’t matter; we was 
only there a few months. There’s no one that knows 
of it but me. But he’s a growing boy now, he’ll 
remember the workhouse, and it will be always a dis- 
grace. ’ ’ 

“How old is he?” 

“He was six last May, miss. It has been a hard job 
to bring him up. I now pay six shillings a week for 
him, that’s more than fourteen pounds a year, and you 
can’t do much in the way of clothes on two pounds a 
year. And now that he’s growing up he’s costing 


238 


ESTHER WATERS 


more than ever; but Mrs. Lewis — that’s the woman 
what has brought him up — is as fond of him as I am 
myself. She don’t want to make nothing out of his 
keep, and that’s how I’ve managed up to the present. 
But I see well enough that it can’t be done; his 
expense increases, and the wages remains the same. 
It was my pride to bring him up on my earnings, and 
my hope to see him an honest man earning good 
money. But it wasn’t to be, miss, it wasn’t to be. 
We must be humble and go back to the workhouse.” 

‘‘I can see that it has been a hard fight.” 

“It has indeed, miss; no one will ever know how 
hard. I shouldn’t mind if it wasn’t going to end by 
going back to where it started. . . . They’ll take 

him from me ; I shall never see him while he is there. 
I wish I was dead, miss, I can’t bear my trouble no 
longer. ’ ’ 

“You shan’t go back to the workhouse so long as I 
can help you. Esther, I’ll give you the wages you ask 
for. It is more than I can afford. Eighteen pounds a 
year ! But your child shall not be taken from [you. 
You shall not go to the workhouse. There aren’t 
many such good women in the world as you, Esther.” 


XXIII. 


From the first Miss Rice was interested in her serv- 
ant, and encouraged her confidences. But it was some 
time before either was able to put aside her natural 
reserve. They were not unlike — quiet, instinctive 
Englishwomen, strong, warm natures, under an 
appearance of formality and reserve. 

The instincts of the watch-dog soon began to 
develop in Esther, and she extended her supervision 
over all the household expenses, likewise over her 
mistress’s health. 

“Now, miss, I must ’ave you take your soup while it 
is ’ot. You’d better put away your writing; you’ve 
been at it all the morning. You’ll make yourself ill, 
and then I shall have the nursing of you. ’ ’ If Miss 
Rice were going out in the evening she would find 
herself stopped in the passage. “Now, miss, I really 
can’t see you go out like that; you’ll catch your death 
of cold. You must put on your warm cloak. ’’ 

Miss Rice’s friends were principally middle-aged 
ladies. Her sisters, large, stout women, used to come 
and see her, and there was a fashionably-dressed 
young man whom her mistress seemed to like very 
much. Mr. Alden was his name, and Miss Rice told 
Esther that he, too, wrote novels ; they used to talk about 
each other’s books for hours, and Esther feared that 
Miss Rice was giving her heart away to one who did 
not care for her. But perhaps she was satisfied to see 

239 


240 


ESTHER WATERS 


Mr. Alden once a week and talk for an hour with him 
about books. Esther didn’t think she’d care, if she had 
a young man, to see him come and go like a shadow. 
But she hadn’t a young man, and did not want one. 
All she now wanted was to awake in the morning and 
know that her child was safe; her ambition was to 
make her mistress’s life comfortable. And for more 
than a year she pursued her plan of life unswervingly. 
She declined an offer of marriage, and was rarely per- 
suaded into a promise to walk out with any of her 
admirers. One of these was a stationer’s foreman, and 
almost every day Esther went to the stationer’s for the 
sermon paper on which her mistress wrote her novels, 
for blotting-paper, for stamps, to post letters — that 
shop seemed the centre of their lives. 

Fred Parsons — that was his name — was a meagre 
little man about thirty-five. A high and prominent 
forehead rose above a small pointed face, and a scanty 
growth of blonde beard and moustache did not conceal 
the receding chin nor the red sealing-wax lips. His 
faded yellow hair was beginning to grow thin, and his 
threadbare frock-coat hung limp from sloping shoul- 
ders. But these disadvantages were compensated by a 
clear bell-like voice, into which no trace of doubt ever 
seemed to come ; and his mind was neatly packed with 
a few religious and political ideas. He had been in 
business in the West End, but an uncontrollable desire 
to ask every customer who entered into conversation 
with him if he were sure that he believed in the second 
coming of Christ had been the cause of severance 
between him and his employers. He had been at West 
Kensington a fortnight, had served Esther once with 
sermon paper, and had already begun to wonder what 


ESTHER WATERS 


241 


were her religious beliefs. But bearing in mind his 
recent dismissal, he refrained for the present. At the 
end of the week they were alone in the shop. Esther 
had come for a packet of note-paper. Fred was sorry 
she had not come for sermon paper; if she had it 
would have been easier to inquire her opinions regard- 
ing the second coming. But the opportunity, such as 
it was, was not to be resisted. He said — 

“Your mistress seems to use a great deal of paper; 
it was only a day or two ago that I served you with 
four quires. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ That was for her books ; what she now wants is 
note-paper. ’ ’ 

“So your mistress writes books !“ 

“Yes.” 

“I hope they’re good books — books that are helpful. ’’ 
He paused to see that no one was within earshot. 

‘ ‘ Books that bring sinners back to the Lord. ’ ’ 

“I don’t know what she writes; I only know 
she writes books; I think I’ve heard she writes nov- 
els. ’ ’ 

Fred did not approve of novels — Esther could see 
that — and she was sorry ; for he seemed a nice, clear- 
spoken young man, and she would have liked to tell 
him that her mistress was the last person who would 
write anything that could do harm to anyone. But her 
mistress was waiting for her paper, and she took leave 
of him hastily. The next time they met was in the 
evening. She was going to see if she could get some 
fresh eggs for her mistress’s breakfast before the shops 
closed, and coming towards her, walking at a great 
pace, she saw one whom she thought she recognised, 
a meagre little man with long reddish hair curling 


ESTHER WATERS 


242 

under the brim of a large soft black hat. He nodded, 
smiling pleasantly as he passed her. 

“Lor’,” she thought, “I didn’t know him; it*s the 
stationer’s foreman.” And the very next evening 
they met in the same street ; she was out for a little 
walk, he was hurrying to catch his train. They 
stopped to pass the time of day, and three days after 
they met at the same time, and as nearly as possible at 
the same place. 

“We’re always meeting,” he said. 

“Yes, isn’t it strange? . . . You come this way 

from business?” she said. 

“Yes; about eight o’clock is my time.” 

It was at the end of August ; the stars caught fire 
slowly in the murky London sunset; and, vaguely 
conscious of a feeling of surprise at the pleasure they 
took in each other’s company, they wandered round a 
little bleak square in which a few shrubs had just been 
planted. They took up the conversation exactly at the 
point where it had been broken off. 

“I’m sorry,” Fred said, “that the paper isn’t going 
to be put to better use. ” 

“You don’t know my mistress, or you wouldn’t say 
that.” 

“Perhaps you don’t know that novels are very often 
stories about the loves of men for other men’s wives. 
Such books can serve no good purpose. ’ ’ 

“I’m sure my mistress don’t write about such 
things. How could she, poor dear innocent lamb? It 
is easy to see you don’t know her.” 

In the course of their argument it transpired that 
Miss Rice went to neither church nor chapel. 

Fred was much shocked. 


ESTHBR WATERS 


243 


“I hope,” he said, “you do not follow your mistress’s 
example. ’ ’ 

Esther admitted she had for some time past 
neglected her religion. Fred went so far as to suggest 
that she ought to leave her present situation and enter 
a truly religious family. 

“I owe her too much ever to think of leaving her. 
And it has nothing to do with her if I haven’t thought 
as much about the Lord as I ought to have. It’s the 
first place I’ve been in where there was time for 
religion. ’ ’ 

This answer seemed to satisfy Fred. 

“Where used you to go?” 

“My people — father and mother — belonged to the 
Brethren.” 

“To the Close or the Open?” 

“I don’t remember; I was only a little child at the 
time.” 

“I’m a Plymouth Brother.” 

“Well, that is strange.” 

“Remember that it is only through belief in our 
Lord, in the sacrifice of the Cross, that we can be 
saved.” 

“Yes, I believe that.” 

The avowal seemed to have brought them strangely 
near to each other, and on the following Sunday Fred 
took Esther to meeting, and introduced her as one who 
had strayed, but who had never ceased to be one of 
them. 

She had not been to meeting since she was a little 
child; and the bare room and bare dogma, in such 
immediate accordance with her own nature — were 
they not associated with memories of home, of father 


244 


ESTHER WATERS 


and mother, of all that had gone? — touched her with a 
human delight that seemed to reach to the roots of her 
nature. It was Fred who preached ; and he spoke of 
the second coming of Christ, when the faithful would 
be carried away in clouds of glory, of the rapine and 
carnage to which the world would be delivered up 
before final absorption in everlasting hell ; and a sen- 
sation of dreadful awe passed over the listening faces ; 
a young girl who sat with closed eyes put out her 
hand to assure herself that Esther was still there — that 
she had not been carried away in glory. 

As they walked home, Esther told Fred that she had 
not been so happy for a long time. He pressed her 
hand, and thanked her with a look in which appeared 
all his soul ; she was his for ever and ever ; nothing 
could wholly disassociate them ; he had saved her 
soul. His exaltation moved her to wonder. But her 
own innate faith, though incapable of these exalta- 
tions, had supported her during many a troublous year. 
Fred would want her to come to meeting with him next 
Sunday, and she was going to Dulwich. Sooner or 
later he would find out that she had a child, then she 
would see him no more. It were better that she 
should tell him than that he should hear it from others. 
But she felt she could not bear the humiliation, the 
shame; and she wished they had never met. That 
child came between her and every possible happiness. 

. . . It were better to break off with Fred. But 

what excuse could she give? Everything went wrong 
with her. He might ask her to marry him, then she 
would have to tell him. 

Towards the end of the week she heard some one tap 
at the window ; it was Fred. He asked her why he 


ESTHER WATERS 245 

had not seen her ; she answered that she had not had 
time. 

“Can you come out this evening?” 

“Yes, if you like.” 

She put on her hat, and they went out. Neither 
spoke, but their feet took instinctively the pavement 
that led to the little square where they had walked the 
first time they went out together. 

“I’ve been thinking of you a good deal, Esther, in 
the last few days. I want to ask you to marry me. ’ ’ 

Esther did not answer. 

“Will you?” he said. 

“I can’t; I’m very sorry; don’t ask me.” 

“Why can’t you?” 

“If I told you I don’t think you’d want to marry me. 
I suppose I’d better tell you. I’m not the good woman 
you think me. I’ve got a child. There, you have it 
now, and you can take your hook when you like. ’ ’ 

It was her blunt, sullen nature that had spoken ; she 
didn’t care if he left her on the spot — now he knew all 
and could do as he liked. At last he said— 

“But you’ve repented, Esther?” 

“I should think I had, and been punished too, 
enough for a dozen children.” 

“Ah, then it wasn’t lately?” 

‘ ‘ Lately ! It’s nearly eight year ago. ’ ’ 

“And all that time you’ve been a good woman?” 

“Yes, I think I’ve been that.” 

“Then if ” 

“I don’t want no ifs. If I am not good enough for 
you, you can go elsewhere and get better; I’ve had 
enough of reproaches. ’ ’ 

“I did not mean to reproach you; I know that a 


246 


ESTHER WATERS 


woman’s path is more difficult to walk in than ours. 
It may not be a woman’s fault if she falls, but it is 
always a man’s. He can always fly from temptation. ” 

“Yet there isn’t a man that can say he hasn’t gone 
wrong. ’ ’ 

“No, not all, Esther.’’ 

Esther looked him full in the face. 

“I understand what you mean, Esther, but I can 
honestly say that I never have. ’ ’ 

Esther did not like him any better for his purity, 
and was irritated by the clear tones of his icy voice. 

“But that is no reason why I should be hard on those 
who have not been so fortunate. I didn’t mean to 
reproach you just now, Esther ; I only meant to say 
that I wish you had told me this before I took you to 
meeting.’’ 

“So you’re ashamed of me, is that it? Well, you can 
keep your shame to yourself. ’ ’ 

“No, not that, Esther ’’ 

“Then you’d like to see me humiliated before the 
others, as if I haven’t had enough of that already. ’ ’ 

“No, Esther, listen to me. Those who transgress 
the moral law may not kneel at the table for a time, 
until they have repented ; but those who believe in the 
sacrifice of the Cross are acquitted, and I believe you 
do that. ’ ’ 

“Yes.” 

“A sinner that repenteth I will speak about 

this at our next meeting; you will come with me 
there?” 

“Next Sunday I’m going to Dulwich to see the 
child. ’ ’ 

“Can’t you go after meeting?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


247 


“No, I can’t be ont morning and afternoon both.” 

“May I go with you?” 

“To Dulwich!” 

“You won’t go until after meeting; I can meet you 
at the railway station. ” 

“If you like.” 

As they walked home Esther told Fred the story of 
her betrayal. He was interested in the story, and was 
very sorry for her. 

“I love you, Esther; it is easy to forgive those we 
love. ’ ’ 

“You’re very good; I never thought to find a man 
so good.” She looked up in his face ; her hand was on 
the gate, and in that moment she felt that she almost 
loved him. 


XXIV. 


Mrs. Humphries, an elderly person, who looked 
after a bachelor’s establishment two doors up, and 
generally slipped in about tea-time, soon began to 
speak of Fred as a very nice young man who would be 
likely to make a woman happy. But Esther moved 
about the kitchen in her taciturn way, hardly answer- 
ing. Suddenly she told Mrs. Humphries that she had 
been to Dulwich with him, and that it was wonderful 
how he and Jackie had taken to one another. 

“You don’t say so! Well, it is nice to find them 
religious folks less ’ard-’earted than they gets the 
name of. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Humphries was of the opinion that henceforth 
Esther should give herself out as Jackie’s aunt. 
“None believes them stories, but they make one seem 
more respectable like, and I am sure Mr. Parsons will 
appreciate the intention” Esther did not answer, but 
she thought of what Mrs. Humphries had said. Per- 
haps it would be better if J ackie were to leave off call- 
ing her Mummie. Auntie! But no, she could not 
bear it. Fred must take her as she was or not at all. 
They seemed to understand each other; he was earn- 
ing good money, thirty shillings a week, and she was 
now going on for eight-and-twenty ; if she was ever 
going to be married it was time to think about it. 

“I don’t know how that dear soul will get on with- 
out me,” she said one October morning as they jogged 
248 


ESTHER WATERS 


249 


out of London by a slow train from St. Paul’s. Fred 
was taking her into Kent to see his people. 

“How do you expect me to get on without you?” 

Esther laughed. 

“Trust you to manage somehow. There ain’t much 
fear of a man not looking after his little self. ’ ’ 

“But the old folk will want to know when. What 
shall I tell them?” 

“This time next year; that’ll be soon enough. Per- 
haps you’ll get tired of me before then.” 

“Say next spring, Esther.” 

The train stopped. 

“There’s father waiting for us in the spring-cart. 
Father! He don’t hear us. He’s gone a bit deaf of 
late years . Father ! ’ ’ 

“Ah, so here you are. Train late.” 

“This is Esther, father.” 

They were going to spend the day at the farm-house, 
and she was going to be introduced to Fred’s sisters 
and to his brother. But these did not concern her 
much, her thoughts were set on Mrs. Parsons, for 
Fred had spoken a great deal about his mother. When 
she had been told about Jackie she was of course very 
sorry; but when she had heard the whole of Esther’s 
story she had said, “We are all born into temptation, 
and if your Esther has really repented and prayed to 
be forgiven, we must not say no to her.” Neverthe- 
less Esther was not quite easy in her mind, and half 
regretted that she had consented to see Fred’s people 
until he had made her his wife. But it was too late to 
think of such things. There was the farm-house. 
Fred had just pointed it out, and, scenting his stable, 
the old grey ascended the hill at a trot, and Esther 


250 


ESTHER WATERS 


wondered what the farm-house would be like. All the 
summer they had had a fine show of fiowers, Fred 
said. Now only a few Michaelmas daisies withered in 
the garden, and the Virginia creeper covered one side 
of the house with a crimson mantle. The old man 
said he would take the trap round to the stable, and 
Fred walked up the red-bricked pavement and lifted 
the latch. As they passed through the kitchen Fred 
introduced Esther to his two sisters, Mary and Lily. 
But they were busy cooking. 

“Mother is in the parlour,” said Mary; “she is wait- 
ing for you. ’ ’ 

By the window, in a wide wooden arm-chair, sat a 
large woman about sixty, dressed in black. She wore 
on either side of her long white face two corkscrew 
curls, which gave her a somewhat ridiculous appear- 
ance. But she ceased to be ridiculous or grotesque 
when she rose from her chair to greet her son. Her 
face beamed, and she held out her hands in a beautiful 
gesture of welcome. 

“Oh, how do you do, dear Fred? I am that glad to 
see you! How good of you to come all this way! 
Come and sit down here.” 

“Mother, this is Esther.” 

“How do you do, Esther? It was good of you to 
come. I am glad to see you. Let me get you a chair. 
Take off your things, dear; come and sit down.” 

She insisted on relieving Esther of her hat and 
jacket, and, having laid them on the sofa, she waddled 
across the room, drawing over two chairs. 

“Come and sit down; you’ll tell me everything. I 
can’t get about much now, but I like to have my chil- 
dren round me. Take this chair, Esther.” Then 


ESTHER WATERS 


251 


turning to Fred, “Tell me, Fred, how you’ve been get- 
ting on. Are you still living at Hackney?” 

“Yes, mother; but when we’re married we’re going 
to have a cottage at Mortlake. Esther will like it 
better than Hackney. It is nearer the country.” 

“Then you’ve not forgotten the country. Mortlake 
is on the river, I think. I hope you won’t find it too 
damp.” 

“No, mother, there are some nice cottages there. I 
think we shall find that Mortlake suits us. There are 
many friends there; more than fifty meet together 
every Sunday. And there’s a lot of political work to 
be done there. I know that you’re against politics, but 
men can’t stand aside nowadays. Times change, 
mother. ’ ’ 

“So long as we have God in our hearts, my dear 
boy, all that we do is well. But you must want some- 
thing after your journey. Fred, dear, knock at that 
door. Your sister Clara’s dressing there. Tell her to 
make haste. ’ ’ 

“All right, mother,” cried a voice from behind the 
partition which separated the rooms, and a moment 
after the door opened and a young woman about thirty 
entered. She was better-looking than the other sis- 
ters, and the fashion of her skirt, and the worldly 
manner with which she kissed her brother and gave 
her hand to Esther, marked her off at once from the 
rest of her family. She was forewoman in a large mil- 
linery establishment. She spent Saturday afternoon 
and Sunday at the farm, but to-day she had got away 
earlier, and, with the view to impressing Esther, she 
explained how this had come about. 

Mrs. Parsons suggested a glass of currant wine, and 


252 


ESTHER WATERS 


Lily came in with a tray and glasses. Clara said she 
was starving. Mary said she would have to wait, and 
Lily whispered, “In about half-an-hour. “ 

After dinner the old man said that they must be get- 
ting on with their work in the orchard. Esther said 
she would be glad to help, but as she was about to fol- 
low the others Mrs. Parsons detained her. 

“You don’t mind staying with me a few minutes, do 
you, dear? I shan’t keep you long.’’ She drew over 
a chair for Esther. “I shan’t perhaps see you again 
for some time. I am getting an old woman, and the 
Lord may be pleased to take me at any moment. I 
wanted to tell you, dear, that I put my trust in you. 
You will make a good wife to Fred, I feel sure, and he 
will make a good father to your child, and if God 
blesses you with other children he’ll treat your first no 
different than the others. He’s told me so, and my 
Fred is a man of his word. You were led into sin, but 
you’ve repented. We was all born into temptation, 
and we must trust to the Lord to lead us out lest we 
should dash our foot against a stone. ’ ’ 

“I was to blame; I don’t say I wasn’t, but ” 

“We won’t say no more about that. We’re all sin- 
ners, the best of us. You’re going to be my son’s 
wife ; you’re therefore my daughter, and this house is 
your home whenever you please to come to see us. 
And I hope that that will be often. I like to have my 
children about me. I can’t get about much now, so 
they must come to me. It is very sad not to be able 
to go to meeting. I’ve not been to meeting since 
Christmas, but I can see them going there from the 
kitchen window, and how 'appy they look coming back 
from prayer. It is easy to see that they have been 


ESTHER WATERS 


253 


with God. The Salvationists come this way some- 
times. They stopped in the lane to sing. I could not 
hear the words, but I could see by their faces that they 
was with God. . . . Now, I’ve told you all that 

was on my mind. I must not keep you; Fred is wait- 
ing.” 

Esther kissed the old woman, and went into the 
orchard, where she found Fred on a ladder shaking the 
branches. He came down when he saw Esther, and 
Harry, his brother, took his place. Esther and Fred 
filled one basket, then, yielding to a mutual inclina- 
tion, they wandered about the orchard, stopping on the 
little plank bridge. They hardly spoke at all, words 
seemed unnecessary ; each felt happiness to be in the 
other’s presence. They heard the water trickling 
through the weeds, and as the light waned the sound 
of the falling apples grew more distinct. Then a 
breeze shivered among the tops of the apple-trees, and 
the sered leaves were blown from the branches. The 
voices of the gatherers were heard crying that their 
baskets were full. They crossed the plank bridge, 
joking the lovers, who stood aside to let them pass. 

When they entered the house they saw the old 
farmer, who had slipped in before them, sitting by his 
wife holding her hand, patting it in a curious old-time 
way, and the attitude of the old couple was so preg- 
nant with significance that it fixed itself on Esther’s 
mind. It seemed to her that she had never seen any- 
thing so beautiful. So they had lived for forty years, 
faithful to each other, and she wondered if Fred forty 
years hence would be sitting by her side holding her 
hand. 

The old man lighted a lantern and went round to the 


254 


ESTHER WATERS 


Stable to get a trap out. Driving through the dark 
country, seeing village lights shining out of the distant 
solitudes, was a thrilling adventure. A peasant came 
like a ghost out of the darkness ; he stepped aside and 
called, “Good-night!” which the old farmer answered 
somewhat gruffly, while Fred answered in a ringing, 
cheery tone. Never had Esther spent so long and 
happy a day. Everything had combined to produce a 
strange exaltation of the spirit in her ; and she listened 
to Fred more tenderly than she had done before. 

The train rattled on through suburbs beginning far 
away in the country ; rattled on through suburbs that 
thickened at every mile; rattled on through a brick 
entanglement; rattled over iron bridges, passed over 
deep streets, over endless lines of lights. 

He bade her good-bye at the area gate, and she had 
promised him that they should be married in the 
spring. He had gone away with a light heart. And 
she had run upstairs to tell her dear mistress of the 
happy day which her kindness had allowed her to 
spend in the country. And Miss Rice had laid the 
book she was reading on her knees, and had listened to 
Esther’s pleasures as if they had been her own. 


XXV. 


But when the spring came Esther put Fred off till 
the autumn, pleading as an excuse that Miss Rice had 
not been very well lately, and that she did not like tc 
leave her. 

It was one of those long and pallid evenings at the 
end of July, when the sky seems as if it could not 
darken. The roadway was very still in its dust and 
heat, and Esther, her print dress trailing, watched a 
poor horse striving to pull a four-wheeler through the 
loose heavy gravel that had just been laid down. So 
absorbed was she in her pity for the poor animal that 
she did not see the gaunt, broad-shouldered man com- 
ing towards her, looking very long-legged in a pair of 
light grey trousers and a black jacket a little too short 
for him. He walked with long, even strides, a small 
cane in one hand, the other in his trousers pocket ; a 
heavy gold chain showed across his waistcoat. He 
wore a round hat and a red necktie. The side whiskers 
and the shaven upper lip gave him the appearance of a 
gentleman’s valet. He did not notice Esther, but a 
sudden step taken sideways as she lingered, her eyes 
fixed on the cab-horse, brought her nearly into col- 
lision with him. 

“Do look where you are going to,” he exclaimed, 
jumping back to avoid the beer- jug, which fell to the 
ground. “What, Esther, is it you?” 

“There, you have made me drop the beer.” 

255 


256 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Plenty more in the public; I’ll get you another 

jug.” 

“It is very kind of you. I can get what I want 
myself. ’ ’ 

They looked at each other, and at the end of a long 
silence William said: “Just fancy meeting you, and in 
this way ! Well I never ! I am glad to see you again. ’ ’ 

“Are you really! Well, so much for that — your 
way and mine aren’t the same. I wish you good 
evening. ’ ’ 

“Stop a moment, Esther.’’ 

“And my mistress waiting for her dinner. I’ve to 
go and get some more beer. ’ ’ 

“Shall I wait for you?’’ 

“Wait for me! I should think not, indeed.” 

Esther ran down the area steps. Her hand paused 
as it was about to lift the jug down from the dresser, 
and a number of thoughts fled across her mind. That 
man would be waiting for her outside. What was she 
to do? How unfortunate! If he continued to come 
after her he and Fred would be sure to meet. 

“What are you waiting for, I should like to know?” 
^she cried, as she came up the steps. 

“That’s ’ardly civil, Esther, and after so many years 
too ; one would think ’ ’ 

“I want none of your thinking; get out of my sight. 
Do you ’ear? I want no truck with you whatever. 
Haven’t you done me enough mischief already?’’ 

“Be quiet; listen to me. I’ll explain.’’ 

“I don’t want none of your explanation. Go away.” 

Her whole nature was now in full revolt, and quick 
with passionate remembrance of the injustice that had 
been done her, she drew back from him, her eyes flash- 


ESTHER WATERS 


257 


ing. Perhaps it was some passing remembrance of the 
breakage of the first beer-jng that prevented her from 
striking him with the second. The spasm passed, and 
then her rage, instead of venting itself in violent 
action, assumed the form of dogged silence. He fol- 
lowed her up the street, and into the bar. She handed 
the jug across the counter, and while the barman filled 
it searched in her pocket for the money. She had 
brought none with her. William promptly produced 
sixpence. Esther answered him with a quick, angry 
glance, and addressing the barman, she said, “I’ll pay 
you to-morrow ; that’ll do, I suppose? 41 Avondale 
Road. ’ ’ 

“That will be all right, but what am I to do with 
this sixpence?’’ 

“I know nothing about that,’’ Esther said, picking 
up her skirt; “I’ll pay you for what I have had.’’ 

Holding the sixpence in his short, thick, and wet 
fingers, the barman looked at William. William 
smiled, and said, “Well, they do run sulky sometimes. ’’ 

He caught at the leather strap and pulled the door 
open for her, and as she passed out she became aware 
that William still admired her. It was really too bad, 
and she was conscious of injustice. Having destroyed 
her life, this man had passed out of sight and knowl- 
edge, but only to reappear when a vista leading to a 
new life seemed open before her. 

“It was that temper of yours that did it; you 
wouldn’t speak to me for a fortnight. You haven’t 
changed, I can see that,’’ he said, watching Esther’s 
face, which did not alter until he spoke of how unhappy 
he had been in his marriage. “A regular brute she 
was — we’re no longer together, you know; haven’t 


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been for the last three years ; could not put up with 
’er. She was that — but that’s a long story. ” Esther 
did not answer him. He looked at her anxiously, and 
seeing that she would not be won over easily, he spoke 
of his money. 

“Look ’ere, Esther,’’ he said, laying his hand on the 
area gate. “You won’t refuse to come out with me 
some Sunday. I’ve a half a share in a public-house, 
the ‘King’s Head,’ and have been backing winners all 
this year. I’ve plenty of money to treat you. I 
should like to make it up to you. Perhaps you’ve ’ad 
rather a ’ard time. What ’ave yer been doing all 
these years? I want to hear. ’’ 

“What ’ave I been doing? Trying to bring up your 
child! That’s what I’ve been doing.’’ 

“There’s a child, then, is there?’’ said William, 
taken aback. Before he could recover himself Esther 
had slipped past him down the area into the house. 
For a moment he looked as if he were going to follow 
her ; on second thoughts he thought he had better not. 
He lingered a moment and then walked slowly away in 
the direction of the Metropolitan Railway. 

“I’m sorry to ’ave kept you waiting, miss, but I met 
with an accident and had to come back for another 

jug-" 

“And what was the accident you met with, Esther?’’ 

“I wasn’t paying no attention, miss; I was looking 
at a cab that could hardly get through the stones 
they’ve been laying down in the Pembroke Road; the 
poor little horse was pulling that ’ard that I thought 
he’d drop down dead, and while I was looking I ran up 
against a passer-by, and being a bit taken aback I 
dropped the jug.’’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


259 


“How was that? Did you know the passer-by?” 

Esther busied herself with the dishes on the side- 
board ; and, divining that something serious had hap- 
pened to her servant, Miss Rice refrained and allowed 
the dinner to pass in silence. Half-an-hour later 
Esther came into the study with her mistress’s tea. 
She brought over the wicker table, and as she set it by 
her mistress’s knees the shadows about the bookcase 
and the light of the lamp upon the book and the pen- 
sive content on Miss Rice’s face impelled her to think 
of her own troubles, the hardship, the passion, the 
despair of her life compared with this tranquil exist- 
ence. Never had she felt more certain that misfortune 
was inherent in her life. She remembered all the 
trouble she had had, she wondered how she had come 
out of it all alive ; and now, just as things seemed like 
settling, everything was going to be upset again. 
Fred was away for a fortnight’s holiday — she was safe 
for eleven or twelve days. After that she did not 
know what might not happen. Her instinct told her 
that although he had passed over her fault very 
lightly, so long as he knew nothing of the father of her 
child, he might not care to marry her if William con- 
tinued to come after her. Ah! if she hadn’t happened 
to go out at that particular time she might never have 
met William. He did not live in the neighbourhood; 
if he did they would have met before. Perhaps he had 
just settled in the neighbourhood. That would be 
worst of all. No, no, no; it was a mere accident; if 
the cask of beer had held out a day or two longer, or if 
it had run out a day or two sooner, she might never 
have met William ! But now she could not keep out 
of his way. He spent the whole day in the street 


26 o 


ESTHER WATERS 


waiting for her. If she went out on an errand he fol- 
lowed her there and back. If she’d only listen. She 
was prettier than ever. He had never cared for any 
one else. He would marry her when he got his 
divorce, and then the child would be theirs. She did 
not answer him, but her blood boiled at the word 
“theirs.” How could Jackie become their child? 
Was it not she who had worked for him, brought him 
up? and she thought as little of his paternity as if he 
had fallen from heaven into her arms. 

One evening as she was laying the table her grief 
took her unawares, and she was obliged to dash aside 
the tears that had risen to her eyes. The action was 
so apparent that Miss Rice thought it would be an 
affectation to ignore it. So she said in her kind, 
musical, intimate manner, “Esther, I’m afraid you 
have some trouble on your mind ; can I do anything 
for you?” 

“No, miss, no, it’s nothing; I shall get over it pres- 
ently.” 

But the effort of speaking was too much for her, and 
a bitter sob caught her in the throat. 

“You had better tell me your trouble, Esther; even 
if I cannot help you it will ease your heart to tell me 
about it. I hope nothing is the matter with Jackie?” 

“No, miss, no; thank God, he’s well enough. It’s 

nothing to do with him ; leastways ’ ’ Then with a 

violent effort she put back her tears. “Oh, it is silly 
of me,” she said, “and your dinner getting cold.” 

“I don’t want to pry into your affairs, Esther, but 
you know that ” 

“Yes, miss, I know you to be kindness itself; but 
there’s nothing to be done but to bear it. You asked 


ESTHER WATERS 


261 


me just now if it had anything to do with Jackie. 
Well, it is no more than that his father has come 
back. ’ ’ 

“But surely, Esther, that’s hardly a reason for sor- 
row ; I should have thought that you would have been 
glad.’’ 

“It is only natural that you should think so, miss; 
them what hasn’t been through the trouble never 
thinks the same as them that has. You see, miss, it is 
nearly nine years since I’ve seen him, and during them 
nine years I ’ave been through so much. I ’ave 
worked and slaved, and been through all the ’ardship, 
and now, when the worst is over, he comes and wants 
me to marry him when he gets his divorce.’’ 

“Then you like some one else better?’’ 

“Yes, miss, I do, and what makes it so ’ard to bear 
is that for the last two months or more I’ve been keep- 
ing company with Fred Parsons — that’s the stationer’s 
assistant; you’ve seen him in the shop, miss — and he 
and me is engaged to be married. He’s earning good 
money, thirty shillings a week; he’s as good a young 
man as ever stepped — religious, kind-hearted, every- 
thing as would make a woman ’appy in ’er ’ome. It is 
’ard for a girl to keep up with ’er religion in some of 
the situations we have to put up with, and I’d mostly 
got out of the habit of chapel-going till I met him ; it 
was ’e who led me back again to Christ. But for all 
that, understanding very well, not to say indulgent for 
the failings of others, like yourself, miss. He knew 
all about Jackie from the first, and never said nothing 
about it, but that I must have suffered cruel, which I 
have. He’s been with me to see Jackie, and they both 
took to each other wonderful like; it couldn’t ’ave 


262 


ESTHER WATERS 


been more so if ’e’d been ’is own father. Bnt now all 
that’s broke up, for when Fred meets William it is as 
likely as not as he’ll think quite different.” 

The evening died behind the red-brick suburb, and 
Miss Rice’s strip of garden grew greener. She had 
finished her dinner, and she leaned back thinking of 
the story she had heard. She was one of those 
secluded maiden ladies so common in England, whose 
experience of life is limited to a tea party, and whose 
further knowledge of life is derived from the yellow- 
backed French novels which fill their bookcases. 

“How was it that you happened to meet William — I 
think you said his name was William?” 

“It was the day, miss, that I went to fetch the beer 
from the public-house. It was he that made me drop 
the jug ; you remember, miss, I had to come back for 
another. I told you about it at the time. When I 
went out again with a fresh jug he was waiting for me, 
he followed me to the ‘Greyhound’ and wanted to pay 
for the beer — not likely that I’d let him; I told them 
to put it on the slate, and that I’d pay for it to-mor- 
row. I didn’t speak to him on leaving the bar, but he 
followed me to the gate. He wanted to know what 
I’d been doing all the time. Then my temper got the 
better of me, and I said, ‘Looking after your child.’ 
‘My child!’ says he. ‘So there’s a child, is there?.’ ” 

“I think you told me that he married one of the 
young ladies at the place you were then in situation?” 

“Young lady! No fear, she wasn’t no young lady. 
Anyway, she was too good or too bad for him; for 
they didn’t get on, and are now living separate. ” 
“Does he speak about the child? Does he ask to see 
him?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


263 


“Lor’, yes, miss; he’d the cheek to say the other day 
that we’d make him our child — our child, indeed! and 
after all these years I’ve been working and he doing 
nothing.” 

“Perhaps he might like to do something for him; 
perhaps that’s what he’s thinking of.” 

“No, miss, I know him better than that. That’s his 
cunning; he thinks he’ll get me through the child.” 

“In any case I don’t see what you’ll gain byrefusing 
to speak to him ; if you want to do something for the 
child, you can. You said he was proprietor of a 
public-house.” 

“I don’t want his money; please God, we’ll be able 
to do without it to the end. ’ ’ 

“If I were to die to-morrow, Esther, remember that 
you would be in exactly the same position as you were 
when you entered my service. You remember what 
that was? You have often told me there was only 
eighteen-pence between you and the workhouse ; you 
owed Mrs. Lewis two weeks’ money for the support of 
the child. I daresay you’ve saved a little money since 
you’ve been with me, but it cannot be more than a few 
pounds. I don’t think that you ought to let this 
chance slip through your fingers, if not for your own, 
for Jackie’s sake. William, according to his own 
account, is making money. He may become a rich 
man ; he has no children by his wife ; he might like to 
leave some of his money — in any case, he’d like to 
leave something — to Jackie.” 

‘ ‘ He was always given to boasting about money. I 
don’t believe all he says about money or anything 
else. ’ ’ 

“That maybe, but he may have money, and you 


264 


ESTHER WATERS 


have no right to refuse to allow him to provide for 
Jackie. Supposing later on Jackie were to reproach 
you?” 

“Jackie ’d never do that, miss; he’d know I acted 
for the best.” 

“If you again found yourself out of a situation, and 
saw Jackie crying for his dinner, you’d reproach your- 
self.” 

“I don’t think I should, miss.” 

“I know you are very obstinate, Esther. When does 
Parsons return?” 

“In about a week, miss.” 

“Without telling William anything about Parsons, 
you’ll be able to find out whether it is his intention to 
interfere in your life. I quite agree with you that it 
is important that the two men should not meet ; but it 
seems to me, by refusing to speak to William, by 
refusing to let him see Jackie, you are doing all you 
can to bring about the meeting that you wish to avoid. 
Is he much about here?” 

“Yes, miss, he seems hardly ever out of the street, 
and it do look so bad for the ’ouse. I do feel that 
ashamed. Since I’ve been with you, miss, I don’t 
think you’ve ’ad to complain of followers.” 

“Well, don’t you see, you foolish girl, that he’ll 
remain hanging about, and the moment Parsons comes 
back he’ll hear of it. You’d better see to this at 
once. ’ ’ 

“Whatever you says, miss, always do seem right, 
some ’ow. What you says do seem that reasonable, 
and yet I don’t know how to bring myself to go to ’im. 
I told ’im that I didn’t want no truck with ’im.” 

“Yes, I think you said so. It is a delicate matter to 


ESTHER WATERS 


265 


advise anyone in, but I feel sure I am right when I 
say that you have no right to refuse to allow him to 
do something for the child. Jackie is now eight years 
old, you’ve not the means of giving him a proper edu- 
cation, and you know the disadvantage it has been to 
you not to know how to read and write.” 

“Jackie can read beautifully — Mrs. Lewis 'as taught 
him. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Esther; but there’s much besides reading and 
writing. Think over what I’ve said; you’re a sensible 
girl; think it out when you go to bed to-night.” 

Next day, seeing William in the street, she went 
upstairs to ask Miss Rice’s permission to go out. 
“Could you spare me, miss, for an hour or so?” was all 
she said. Miss Rice, who had noticed a man loitering, 
replied, “Certainly, Esther.” 

“You aren’t afraid to be left in the house alone, 
miss? I shan’t be far away.” 

“No. I am expecting Mr. Alden. I’ll let him in, 
and can make the tea myself. ’ ’ 

Esther ran up the area steps and walked quickly 
down the street, as if she were going on an errand. 
William crossed the road and was soon alongside of her. 

“Don’t be so ’ard on a chap,” he said. “Just listen 
to reason.” 

“I don’t want to listen to you; you can’t have much 
to say that I care for. ’ ’ 

Her tone was still stubborn, but he perceived that it 
contained a change of humour. 

“Come for a little walk, and then, if you don’t agree 
with what I says. I’ll never come after you again.” 

“You must take me for a fool if you think I’d pay 
attention to your promises. ’ ’ 


266 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Esther, hear me out; you’re very unforgiving, but 
if you’d hear me out ’’ 

“You can speak; no one’s preventing you that I can 
see. ’ ’ 

“I can’t say it off like that; it is a long story. I 
know that I’ve behaved badly to you, but it wasn’t as 
much my fault as you think ; I could explain a good lot 
of it.’’ 

“I don’t care about your explanations. If you’ve 
only got explanations ’’ 

“There’s that boy.’’ 

“Oh, it is the boy you’re thinking of?’’ 

“Yes, and you too, Esther. The mother can’t be 
separated from the child. ’ ’ 

“Very likely; the father can, though.’’ 

“If you talk that snappish I shall never get out what 
I’ve to say. I’ve treated you badly, and it is to make 
up for the past as far as I can ’ ’ 

“And how do you know that you aren’t doing harm 
by coming after me?’’ 

“You mean you’re keeping company with a chap 
and don’t want me?’’ 

“You don’t know I’m not a married woman; you 
don’t know what kind of situation I’m in. You comes 
after me just because it pleases your fancy, and don’t 
give it a thought that you mightn’t get me the sack, as 
you got it me before. ’ ’ 

“There’s no use nagging; just let’s go where we can 
have a talk, and then if you aren’t satisfied you can go 
your way and I can go mine. You said I didn’t know 
that you wasn’t married. I don’t, but if you aren’t, so 
much the better. If you are, you’ve only to say so 
and I’ll take my hook. I’ve done quite enough 


ESTHER WATERS 267 

harm, without coming between you and your hus- 
band. ’ ’ 

William spoke earnestly, and his words came so evi- 
dently from his heart that Esther was touched against 
her will. 

“No, I ain’t married yet,’’ she replied. 

“I’m glad of that. ’’ 

“I don’t see what odds it can make to you 
whether I’m married or not. If I ain’t married, you 
are. ’ ’ 

William and Esther walked on in silence, listening 
to the day as it hushed in quiet suburban murmurs. 
The sky was almost colourless — a faded grey, that 
passed into an insignificant blue ; and upon this almost 
neutral tint the red suburb appeared in rigid outline, 
like a carving. At intervals the wind raised a cloud 
of dust in the roadway. Stopping before a piece of 
waste ground, William said — 

“Let’s go in there; we'll be able to talk easier.’’ 
Esther raised no objection. They went in and looked 
for a place where they could sit down. 

“This is just like old times,’’ said William, moving a 
little closer. 

“If you are going to begin any of that nonsense I’ll 
get up and go. I only came out with you because you 
said you had something particular to say about the 
child. ’ ’ 

“Well, it is only natural that I should like to see my 
son.’’ 

“How do you know it’s a son?’’ 

“I thought you said so. I should like it to be a boy 
—is it?’’ 

“Yes, it is a boy, and a lovely boy too; very differ- 


268 


ESTHER WATERS 


ent to his father. I’ve always told him that his father 
is dead.” 

“And is he sorry?” 

“Not a bit. I’ve told him his father wasn’t good to 
me ; and he don’t care for those who haven’t been good 
to his mother. ” 

“I see, you’ve brought him up to hate me?” 

“He don’t know nothing about you — how should ’e?” 

“Very likely; but there’s no need to be that par- 
ticular nasty. As I’ve said before, what’s done can’t 
be undone. I treated you badly, I know that; and 
I’ve been badly treated myself — damned badly treated. 
You’ve ’ad a ’ard time; so have I, if that’s any comfort 
to ye.” 

“I suppose it is wrong of me, but seeing you has 
brought up a deal of bitterness, more than I thought 
there was in me. ’ ’ 

William lay at length, his body resting on one arm. 
He held a long grass stalk between his small, discol- 
oured teeth. The conversation had fallen. He looked 
at Esther; she ^at straight up, her stiff cotton dress 
spread over the rough grass; her cloth jacket was 
unbuttoned. He thought her a nice-looking woman, 
and he imagined her behind the bar of the “King’s 
Head.” His marriage had proved childless and in 
every way a failure ; he now desired a wife such as he 
felt sure she would be, and his heart hankered sorely 
after his son. He tried to read Esther’s quiet, sub- 
dued face. It was graver than usual, and betrayed 
none of the passion that choked in her. She must 
manage that the men should not meet. But how 
should she rid herself of him? She noticed that he was 
looking at her, and to lead his thoughts away from 


ESTHER WATERS 


269 


herself she asked him where he had gone with his wife 
when they left Wood view. Breaking off suddenly, he 
said — 

“Peggy knew all the time I was gone on you.” 

“It don’t matter about that. Tell me where you 
went — they said you went foreign. ’ ’ 

“We first went to Boulogne, that’s in France; but 
nearly everyone speaks English there, and there was 
a nice billiard room handy, where all the big betting 
men came in of an evening. We went to the races. I 
backed three winners on the first day — the second I 
didn’t do so well. Then we went on to Paris. The 
race-meetings is very ’andy — I will say that for Paris 
— ^half-an -hour’s drive and there you are. ” 

“Did your wife like Paris?” 

“Yes, she liked it pretty well — it is all the place for 
fashion, and the shops is grand ; but she got tired of it 
too, and we went to Italy.” 

“Where’s that?” 

“That’s down south. A beast of a place — nothing 
but sour wine, and all the cookery done in oil, and 
nothing to do but seeing picture-galleries. I got that 
sick of it I could stand it no longer, and I said, ‘I’ve 
’ad enough of this. I want to go home, where I can 
get a glass of Burton and a cut from the joint, and 
where there’s a horse worth looking at.’ ” 

“But she was very fond of you. She must have 
been.” 

“She was, in her way. But she always liked talking 
to the singers and the painters that we met out there. 
Nothing wrong, you know. That was after we had 
been married about three years. ’ ’ 

“What was that?” 


270 


ESTHER WATERS 


“That I caught her out.” 

“How do you know there was anything wrong? 
Men always think bad of women.” 

“No, it was right enough; she had got dead sick of 
me, and I had got dead sick of her. It never did seem 
natural like. There was no ’omeliness in it, and a 
marriage that ain’t ’omely is no marriage for me. Her 
friends weren’t my friends; and as for my friends, she 
never left off insulting me about them. If I was to 
ask a chap in she wouldn’t sit in the same room with 
him. That’s what it got to at last. And I was always 
thinking of you, and your name used to come up when 
we was talking. One day she said, ‘I suppose you are 
sorry yon didn’t marry a servant?’ and I said, ‘I sup- 
pose you are sorry you did?’ ” 

“That was a good one for her. Did she say she 
was?” 

“She put her arms round my neck and said she loved 
none but her big Bill. But all her flummery didn’t 
take me in. And I says to myself, ‘Keep an eye on 
her. ’ For there was a young fellow hanging about in 
a manner I didn’t particularly like. He was too anx- 
ious to be polite to me, he talked to me about ’orses, 
and I could see he knew nothing about them. He 
even went so far as go down to Kempton with me. ’ ’ 

“And how did it all end?” 

“•I determined to keep my eye on this young 
whipper-snapper, and come up from Ascot by an 
earlier train than they expected me. I let myself in 
and ran up to the drawing-room. They were there 
sitting side by side on the sofa. I could see they were 
very much upset. The young fellow turned red, and 
he got up, stammering, and speaking a lot of rot. 


ESTHER WATERS 


271 


“ ‘What! you back already? How did you get on at 
Ascot? Had a good day?’ 

“‘Rippin’; but I’m going to have a better one 
now,’ I said, keeping my eye all the while on my 
wife. I could see by her face that there was no doubt 
about it. Then I took him by the throat. ‘I just give 
you two minutes to confess the truth ; I know it, but I 
want to hear it from you. Now, out with it, or I’ll 
strangle you.’ I gave him a squeeze just to show 
him that I meant it. He turned up his eyes, and 
my wife cried, ‘Murder!’ I threw him back from 
me and got between her and the door, locked it, and 
put the key in my pocket. ‘Now,’ I said, ‘I’ll drag 
the truth out of you both.’ He did look white, he 
shrivelled up by the chimney-piece, and she — well, she 
looked as if she could have killed me, only there was 
nothing to kill me with. I saw her look at the fire- 
irons. Then, in her nasty sarcastic way, she said, 
‘There’s no reason, Percy, why he shouldn’t know. 
Yes,’ she said, ‘he is my lover; you can get your 
divorce when you like. ’ 

“I was a bit taken aback; my idea was to squeeze it 
all out of the fellow and shame him before her. But 
she spoilt my little game there, and I could see by her 
eyes that she knew that she had. ‘Now, Percy,’ she 
said, ‘we’d better go.’ That put my blood up. I 
said, ‘ Go you shall, but not till I give you leave, ’ and 
without another word I took him by the collar and led 
him to the door ; he came like a lamb, and I sent him 
off with as fine a kick as he ever got in his life. He 
went rolling down, and didn’t stop till he got to the 
bottom. You should have seen her look at me; there 
was murder in her eyes. If she could she’d have killed 


272 


ESTHER WATERS 


me, but she couldn’t and calmed down a bit. ‘Let 
me go; what do you want me for? You can get a 
divorce. . . . I’ll pay the costs. ’ 

“ ‘I don’t think I’d gratify you so much. So you’d 
like to marry him, would you, my beauty?’ 

“ ‘He’s a gentleman, and I’ve had enough of you; if 
you want money you shall have it. ’ 

“I laughed at her, and so it went on for an hour or 
more. Then she suddenly calmed down. I knew 
something was up, only I didn’t know what. I don’t 
know if I told you we was in lodgings — the usual sort, 
drawing-room with folding doors, the bedroom at the 
back. She went into the bedroom, and I followed, 
just to make sure she couldn’t get out that way. 
There was a chest of drawers before the door; I 
thought she couldn’t move it, and went back into the 
sitting-room. But somehow she managed to move it 
without my hearing her, and before I could stop her 
she was down the stairs like lightning. I went after 
her, but she had too long a start of me, and the last I 
heard was the street door go bang. ’ ’ 

The conversation paused. William took the stalk he 
was chewing from his teeth, and threw it aside. 
Esther had picked one, and with it she beat impatiently 
among the grass. 

“But what has all this to do with me?’’ she said. 

“If this is all you have brought me out to listen to ’’ 

“That’s a nice way to round on me. Wasn’t it you 
what asked me to tell you the story?’’ 

“So you’ve deserted two women instead of one, 
that’s about the long and short of it.’’ 

“Well, if that’s what you think I’d better be off,’’ 
said William, and he rose to his feet and stood looking 


ESTHER WATERS 


*73 


at her. She sat quite still, not daring to raise her 
eyes; her heart was throbbing violently. Would he go 
away and never come back? Should she answer him 
indifferently or say nothing? She chose the latter 
course. Perhaps it was the wrong one, for her dogged 
silence irritated him, and he sat down and begged of 
her to forgive him. He would wait for her. Then 
her heart ceased throbbing, and a cold numbness came 
over her hands. 

“My wife thought that I had no money, and could 
do what she liked with me. But I had been backing 
winners all the season, and had a couple of thousand 
in the bank. I put aside a thousand for working 
expenses, for I intended to give up backing horses and 
go in for bookmaking instead. I have been at it ever 
since. A few ups and downs, but I can’t complain. 
I am worth to-day close on three thousand pounds.” 

At the mention of so much money Esther raised her 
eyes. She looked at William steadfastly. Her object 
was to rid herself of him, so that she might marry 
another man; but at that moment a sensation of the 
love she had once felt for him sprang upon her sud- 
denly. 

“I must be getting back, my mistress will be waiting 
for me.” 

“You needn’t be in that hurry. It is quite early. 
Besides, we haven’t settled nothing yet.” 

“You’ve been telling me about your wife. I don’t 
see much what it’s got to do with me.” 

“I thought you was interested . , . that you 

wanted to see that I wasn’t as much to blame as you 
thought. ’ ’ 

“I must be getting back,” she said; “anything else 


274 


ESTHER WATERS 


you have to say to me you can tell me on the way 
home. ’ ’ 

“Well, it all amounts to this, Esther; if I get a 
divorce we might come together again. What do you 
think?” 

“I think you’d much better make it up with her. I 
daresay she’s very sorry for what she’s done.” 

“That’s all rot, Esther. She ain’t sorry, and 
wouldn’t live with me no more than I with her. We 
could not get on; what’s the use? You’d better let 
bygones be bygones. You know what I mean — marry 
me.” 

“I don’t think I could do that.” 

“You like some other chap. You like some chap, 
and don’t want me interfering in your life. That’s 
why you wants me to go back and live with my wife. 
You don’t think of what I’ve gone through with her 
already. ’ ’ 

“You’ve not been through half of what I have. I’ll 
be bound that you never wanted a dinner. I have.” 

“Esther, think of the child.” 

“You’re a nice one to tell me to think of the child, I 
who worked and slaved for him all these years. ’ ’ 

“Then I’m to take no for an answer?” 

“I don’t want to have nothing to do with you.” 

“And you won’t let me see the child?” 

A moment later Esther answered, “You can see the 
child, if you like.” 

“Where is he?” 

“You can come with me to see him next Sunday, if 
you like. Now let me go in. ” 

“What time shall I come for you?” 

“About three — a little after.” 


XXVI. 


William was waiting for her in the area ; and while 
pinning on her hat she thought of what she should 
say, and how she should act. Should she tell him that 
she wanted to marry Fred? Then the long black pin 
that was to hold her hat to her hair went through the 
straw with a little sharp sound, and she decided that 
when the time came she would know what to say. 

As he stepped aside to let her go up the area steps, 
she noticed how beautifully dressed he was. He wore 
a pair of grey trousers, and in his spick and span 
morning coat there was a bunch of carnations. 

They walked some half-dozen yards up the street in 
silence. 

“But why do you want to see the boy? You never 
thought of him all these years. ’ ’ 

“I’ll tell you, Esther. . . . But it is nice to be 

walking out with you again. If you’d only let bygones 
be bygones we might settle down together yet. What 
do you think?’’ 

She did not answer, and he continued, “It do seem 
strange to be walking out with you again, meeting you 
after all these years, and I’m never in your neighbour- 
hood. I just happened to have a bit of business with 
a friend who lives your way, and was coming along 
from his ’ouse, turning over in my mind what he had 
told me about Rising Sun for the Steward’s Cup, when 
I saw you coming along with the jug in your ’and. I 

275 


276 


ESTHER WATERS 


said, ‘That’s the prettiest girl I’ve seen this many a 
day; that’s the sort of girl I’d like to see behind the 
bar of the “King’s Head.’’ ’ You always keeps your 
figure — ^you know you ain’t a bit changed; and when I 
caught sight of those white teeth I said, ‘Lor’, why, 
it’s Esther.’ ” 

“I thought it was about the child you was going to 
speak to me. ’ ’ 

“So I am, but you came first in my estimation. 
The moment I looked into your eyes I felt it had been 
a mistake all along, and that you was the only one I 
had cared about. ’ ’ 

“Then all about wanting to see the child was a pack 
of lies?” 

“No, they weren’t lies. I wanted both mother and 
child — if I could get ’em, ye know. I’m telling you 
the unvarnished truth, Esther. I thought of the child 
as a way of getting you back; but little by little I 
began to take an interest in him, to wonder what he 
was like, and with thoughts of the boy came different 
thoughts of you, Esther, who is the mother of my boy. 
Then I wanted you both back; and I’ve thought of 
nothing else ever since. ’ ’ 

At that moment they reached the Metropolitan Rail- 
way, and William pressed forward to get the tickets. 
A' subterraneous rumbling was heard, and they ran 
down the steps as fast as they could, and seeing them 
so near the ticket-collector held the door open for 
them, and just as the train was moving from the plat- 
form William pushed Esther into a second-class com- 
partment. 

“We’re in the wrong class,” she cried. 

“No, we ain’t; get in, get in,” he shouted. And 


ESTHER WATERS 


277 


with the guard crying to him to desist, he hopped in 
after her, saying, “You very nearly made me miss the 
train. What ’ud you’ve done if the train had taken 
you away and left me behind?’’ 

The remark was not altogether a happy one. 

“Then you travel second-class?’’ Esther said. 

“Yes, I always travel second-class now; Peggy 
never would, but second seems to me quite good 
enough. I don’t care about third, unless one is with a 
lot of pals, and can keep the carriage to ourselves. 
That’s the way we manage it when we go down to 
Newmarket or Doncaster.’’ 

They were alone in the compartment. William 
leaned forward and took her hand. 

“Try to forgive me, Esther.’’ 

She drew her hand away ; he got up, and sat down 
beside her, and put his arm around her waist. 

“No, no. I’ll have none of that. All that sort of 
thing is over between us. ’ ’ 

He looked at her inquisitively, not knowing how to act. 

“I know you’ve had a hard time, Esther. Tell me 
about it. What did you do when you left Woodview?” 
He unfortunately added, “Did you ever meet any one 
since that you cared for?” 

The question irritated her, and she said, “It don’t 
matter to you who I met or what I went through. ’ ’ 

The conversation paused. William spoke about the 
Barfields, and Esther could not but listen to the tale of 
what had happened at Woodview during the last eight 
years. 

Woodview had been all her unhappiness and all her 
misfortune. She had gone there when the sap of life 
was flowing fastest in her, and Woodview had become 


278 


ESTHER WATERS 


the most precise and distinct vision she had gathered 
from life. She remembered that wholesome and 
ample country house, with its park and its down lands, 
and the valley farm, sheltered by the long lines of 
elms. She remembered the race-horses, their slight 
forms showing under the grey clothing, the round 
black eyes looking out through the eyelet holes in the 
hanging hoods, the odd little boys astride — a string of 
six or seven passing always before the kitchen win- 
dows, going through the paddock gate under the 
bunched evergreens. She remembered the rejoicings 
when the horse won at Goodwood, and the ball at the 
Shoreham Gardens. Woodview had meant too much 
in her life to be forgotten ; its hillside and its people 
were drawn out in sharp outline on her mind. Some- 
thing in William’s voice recalled her from her reverie, 
and she heard him say — 

“The poof Gaffer, ’e never got over it; it regular 
broke 'im up. I forgot to tell you, it was Ginger who 
was riding. It appears that he did all he knew ; he 
lost start, he tried to get shut in, but it warn’t no go, 
luck was against them ; the ’orse was full of running, 
and, of course, he couldn’t sit down and saw his 
blooming ’ead off, right in th’ middle of the course, 
with Sir Thomas’s (that’s the ’andicapper) field- 
glasses on him. He’d have been warned off the 
blooming ’eath, and he couldn’t afford that, even to 
save his own father. The ’orse won in a canter : they 
clapped eight stun on him for the Cambridgeshire. 
It broke the Gaffer’s ’eart. He had to sell off his 
’orses, and he died soon after the sale. He died of 
consumption. It generally takes them off earlier ; but 
they say it is in the family. Miss May ^’’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


279 


“Oh, tell me about her,” said Esther, who had been 
thinking all the while of Mrs. Barfield and of Miss 
Mary. “Tell me, there’s nothing the matter with 
Miss Mary?” 

“Yes, there is: she can’t live no more in England; 
she has to go to winter, I think it is, in Algeria. ’ ’ 

At that moment the train screeched along the rails, 
and vibrating under the force of the brakes, it passed 
out of the tunnel into Blackfriars. 

“We shall just be able to catch the ten minutes past 
four to Peckham, ’ ’ she said, and they ran up the high 
steps. William strode along so fast that Esther was 
obliged to cry out, “There’s no use, William; train or 
no train, I can’t walk at that rate.” 

There was just time for them to get their tickets at 
Ludgate Hill. They were in a carriage by themselves, 
and he proposed to draw up the windows so that they 
might be able to talk more easily. He was interested 
in the ill-luck that had attended certain horses, and 
Esther wanted to hear about Mrs. Barfield. 

“You seem to be very fond of her; what did she do 
for you?” 

“Everything — that was after you went away. She 
was kind.” 

“I’m glad to hear that,” said William. 

“So they spends the summer at Woodview and goes 
to foreign parts for the winter?” 

“Yes, that’s it. Most of the estate was sold; but 
Mrs. Barfield, the Saint — you remember we used to 
call her the Saint — well, she has her fortune, about 
five hundred a year, and they just manage to live there 
in a sort of hole-and-corner sort of way. They can’t 
afford to keep a trap, and towards the end of October 


28 o 


ESTHER WATERS 


they go off and don’t return till the beginning of May. 
Woodview ain’t what it was. You remember the 
stables they were putting up when Silver Braid won 
the two cups? Well, they are just as when you last 
saw them — rafters and walls.” 

“Racing don’t seem to bring no luck to anyone. It 
ain’t my affair, but if I was you I’d give it up and get 
to some honest work. ” 

“Racing has been a good friend to me. I don’t 
know where I should be without it to-day. ’ ’ 

“So all the servants have left Woodview? I wonder 
what has become of them.’’ 

“You remember my mother, the cook? She died a 
couple of years ago. ’ ’ 

“Mrs. Latch! Oh, I’m so sorry.’’ 

“She was an old woman. You remember John 
Randal, the butler? He’s in a situation in Cumber- 
land Place, near the Marble Arch. He sometimes 
comes round and has a glass in the ‘King’s Head.’ 
Sarah Tucker — she’s in a situation somewhere in town. 
I don’t know what has become of Margaret Gale. ’’ 

“I met her one day in the Strand. I’d had nothing 
to eat all day. I was almost fainting, and she took me 
into a public-house and gave me a sausage.’’ 

The train began to slacken speed, and William 
said, “This is Peckham.’’ 

They handed up their tickets, and passed into the 
air of an irregular little street — ^low disjointed shops 
and houses, where the tramcars tinkled through a 
slacker tide of humanity than the Londoners were 
accustomed to. 

“This way,” said Esther. “This is the way to the 
Rye.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


281 


“Then Jackie lives at the Rye?” 

“Not far from the Rye. Do you know East Dul- 
wich?” 

“No, I never was here before.” 

“Mrs. Lewis (that’s the woman who looks after him) 
lives at East Dulwich, but it ain’t very far. I always 
gets out here. I suppose you don’t mind a quarter of 
an hour’s walk.” 

“Not when I’m with you,” William replied gallantly, 
and he followed her through the passers-by. 

The Rye opened up like a large park, beginning in 
the town and wending far away into a country pros- 
pect. At the Peckham end there were a dozen hand- 
some trees, and under them a piece of artificial water 
where boys were sailing toy boats, and a poodle was 
swimming. Two old ladies in black came out of a 
garden full of hollyhocks ; they walked towards a seat 
and sat down in the autumn landscape. And as Wil- 
liam and Esther pursued their way the Rye seemed to 
grow longer and longer. It opened up into a vast 
expanse full of the last days of cricket ; it was charm- 
ing with slender trees and a Japanese pavilion quaintly 
placed on a little mound. An upland background in 
gradations, interspaced with villas, terraces, and gar- 
dens, and steep hillside, showing fields and hayricks, 
brought the Rye to a picturesque and abrupt end. 

“But it ain’t nearly so big as Chester race-course. 
A regular cockpit of a place is the Chester course ; and 
not every horse can get round it. ’ ’ 

Turning to the right and leaving the Rye behind 
them, they ascended a long, monotonous, and very 
ugly road composed of artificial little houses, each set 
in a portion of very metallic garden. These continued 


282 


ESTHER WATERS 


all the way to the top of a long hill, straggling into a 
piece of waste ground where there were some trees and 
a few rough cottages. A little boy came running 
towards them, stumbling over the cinder heaps and the 
tin canisters with which the place was strewn, and 
William felt that that child was his. 

“That child will break ’is blooming little neck if ’e 
don’t take care, ’ ’ he remarked tentatively. 

She hated him to see the child, and to assert her 
complete ownership she clasped Jackie to her bosom 
without a word of explanation, and she questioned the 
child on matters about which William knew nothing. 

William stood looking tenderly on his son, waiting 
for Esther to introduce them. Mother and child were 
both so glad in each other that they forgot the fine 
gentleman standing by. Suddenly the boy looked 
towards his father, and she repented a little of her 
cruelty. 

“Jackie,’’ she said, “do you know who this gentle- 
man is who has come to see you?’’ 

“No, I don’t.’’ 

She did not care that Jackie should love his 
father, and yet she could not help feeling sorry for 
William. 

“I’m your father,’’ said William. 

“No, you ain’t. I ain’t got no father.’’ 

“How do you know, Jackie?” 

“Father died before I was bom; mother told me.’’ 

“But mother may be mistaken.” 

“If my father hadn’t died before I was born he’d ’ve 
been to see us before this. Come, mother, come to 
tea. Mrs. Lewis ’as got hot cakes, and they’ll be 
burnt if we stand talking.” 


ESTHER WATERS 283 

“Yes, dear, but what the gentleman says is quite 
true ; he is your father. ’ ’ 

Jackie made no answer, and Esther said, “I told you 
your father was dead, but I w^as mistaken.” 

“Won't 5^ou come and walk with me?” said William. 

“No, thank you; I like to walk with mother.” 

“He’s always like that with strangers,” said Esther; 
“it is shyness; but he’ll come and talk to you pres- 
ently, if you leave him alone. ’ ’ 

Each cottage had a rough piece of garden, the yellow 
crowns of sunflowers showed over the broken palings, 
and Mrs. Lewis’s large face came into the window- 
pane. A moment later she was at the front door wel- 
coming her visitors. The affection of her welcome was 
checked when she saw that William was with Esther, 
and she drew aside respectfully to let this fine gentle- 
man pass. When they were in the kitchen Esther 
said — 

“This is Jackie’s father.” 

“What, never! I thought — but I’m sure we’re very 
glad to see you.” Then noticing the fine gold chain 
that hung across his waistcoat, the cut of his clothes, 
and the air of money which his whole bearing seemed 
to represent, she became a little obsequious in her 
welcome. 

“I’m sure, sir, we’re very glad to see you. Won’t 
you sit down?” and dusting a chair with her apron, 
she handed it to him. Then turning to Esther, she 
said — 

“Sit yourself down, dear; tea'll be ready in a 
moment.” She was one of those women who, 
although their apron-strings are a good yard in length, 
preserve a strange agility of movement and a pleasant 


284 


ESTHER WATERS 


vivacity of speech. “I ’ope, sir, we’ve brought ’im up 
to your satisfaction; we’ve done the best we could. 
He’s a dear boy. There’s been a bit of jealousy 
between us on his account, but for all that we ’aven’t 
spoilt him. I don’t want to praise him, but he’s as 
well behaved a boy as I knows of. Maybe a bit wil- 
ful, but there ain’t much fault to find with him, and I 
ought to know, for it is I that ’ad the bringing up of 
him since he was a baby of two months old. Jackie, 
dear, why don’t you go to your father?” 

He stood by his mother’s chair, twisting his slight 
legs in a manner that was peculiar to him. His dark 
hair fell in thick, heavy locks over his small face, and 
from under the shadow of his locks his great luminous 
eyes glanced furtively at his father. Mrs. Lewis told 
him to take his finger out of his mouth, and thus 
encouraged he went towards William, still twisting his 
legs and looking curiously dejected. He did not speak 
for some time, but he allowed William to put his arm 
round him and draw him against his knees. Then fix- 
ing his eyes on the toes of his shoes he said somewhat 
abruptly, but confidentially — 

‘‘Are you really my father? No humbug, you 
know, ’ ’ he added, raising his eyes, and for a moment 
looking William searchingly in the. face. 

‘‘I’m not humbugging, Jack. I’m your father right 
enough. Don’t you like me? But I think you said 
you didn’t want to have a father?” 

Jackie did not answer this question. After a 
moment’s reflection, he said, ‘‘If you be father, why 
didn’t you come to see us before?” 

William glanced at Esther, who, in her turn, glanced 
at Mrs. Lewis. 


ESTHER WATERS 285 

“I'm afraid that’s rather a long story, Jackie. I was 
away in foreign parts. ” 

Jackie looked as if he would like to hear about 
“foreign parts,” and William awaited the question 
that seemed to tremble on the child’s lips. But, 
instead, he turned suddenly to Mrs. Lewis and 
said — 

“The cakes aren’t burnt, are they? I ran as fast as 
I could the moment I saw them coming. ’ ’ 

The childish abruptness of the transition made them 
laugh, and an unpleasant moment passed away. Mrs. 
Lewis took the plate of cakes from the fender and 
poured out their tea. The door and window were 
open, and the dying light lent a tenderness to the tea- 
table, to the quiet solicitude of the mother watching 
her son, knowing him in all his intimate habits ; to the 
eager curiosity of the father on the other side, leaning 
forward delighted at every look and word, thinking it 
all astonishing, wonderful. Jackie sat between the 
women. He seemed to understand that his chance of 
eating as many tea-cakes as he pleased had come, and 
he ate with his eyes fixed on the plate, considering 
which piece he would have when he had finished the 
piece he had in his hand. Little was said — a few 
remarks about the fine weather, and offers to put out 
another cup of tea. By their silence Mrs. Lewis began 
to understand that they had differences to settle, and 
that she had better leave them. She took her shawl 
from the peg, and pleaded that she had an appoint- 
ment with a neighbour. But she wouldn’t be more 
than half-an-hour; would they look after the house 
till her return? And William watched her, thinking 
of what he would say when she was out of hearing. 


286 


ESTHER WATERS 


“That boy of ours is a dear little fellow; you’ve 
been a good mother, I can see that. If I had only 
known.” 

“There’s no use talking no more about it; what’s 
done is done. ’ ’ 

The cottage door was open, and in the still evening 
they could see their child swinging on the gate. The 
moment was tremulous with responsibility, and yet the 
words as they fell from their lips seemed accidental. 

At last he said — 

“Esther, I can get a divorce.” 

“You’d much better go back to your wife. Once 
married, always married, that’s my way of thinking.” 

“I’m sorry to hear you say it, Esther. Do you think 
a man should stop with his wife who’s been treated as 
I have been?” 

Esther avoided a direct reply. Why should he care 
about the child? He had never done anything for him. 
William said that if he had known there was a child 
he would have left his wife long ago. He believed 
that he loved the child just as much as she did, and 
didn’t believe in marriage without children. 

“That would have been very wrong.” 

“We ain’t getting no for’arder by discussing them 
things,” he said, interrupting her. “We can’t say 
good-bye after this evening and never see one another 
again.” 

“Why not? I’m nothing to you now; you’ve got a 
wife of your own; you’ve no claim upon me; you can 
go your way and I can keep to mine. ’ ’ 

“There’s that child. I must do something for him. ” 

“Well, you can do something for him without ruining 
me.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


287 


“ Ruiningf you, Esther?” 

“Yes, ruining me. I ain’t going to lose my char- 
acter by keeping company with a married man. 
You’ve done me harm enough already, and should be 
ashamed to think of doing me any more. You can 
pay for the boy’s schooling if you like, you can pay for 
his keep too, but you mustn’t think that in doing so 
you’ll get hold of me again.” 

“Do you mean it, Esther?” 

“Followers ain’t allowed where I am. You’re a 
married man. I won’t have it.” 

“But when I get my divorce?” 

“When you get your divorce! I don’t know hov/ 
it’ll be then. But here’s Mrs. Lewis; she’s a-scold- 
ing of Jackie for swinging on that ’ere gate. Naughty 
boy; he’s been told twenty times not to swing on the 
gate.” 

Esther complained that they had stayed too long, 
that he had made her late, and treated his questions 
about Jackie with indifference. He might write if he 
had anything important to say, but she could not keep 
company with a married man. William seemed very 
downcast. Esther, too, was unhappy, and she did not 
know why. She had succeeded as well as she had 
expected, but success had not brought that sense of 
satisfaction which she had expected it would. Her 
idea had been to keep William out of the way and 
hurry on her marriage with Fred. But this marriage, 
once so ardently desired, no longer gave her any pleas- 
ure. She had told Fred about the child. He had for- 
given her. But now she remembered that men were 
very forgiving before marriage, but how did she know 
that he would not reproach her with her fault the first 


288 


ESTHER WATERS 


time they came to disagree about anything? Ah, it 
was all misfortune. She had no luck. She didn’t 
want to marry anyone. 

That visit to Dulwich had thoroughly upset her. 
She ought to have kept out of William’s way — that 
man seemed to have a power over her, and she hated 
him for it. What did he want to see the child for? 
The child was nothing to him. She had been a fool ; 
now he’d be after the child; and through this fever 
of trouble there raged an acute desire to know what 
Jackie thought of his father, what Mrs. Lewis thought 
of William. 

And the desire to know what was happening became 
intolerable. She went to her mistress to ask for leave 
to go out. Very little of her agitation betrayed itself 
in her demeanour, but Miss Rice’s sharp eyes had 
guessed that her servant’s life was at a crisis. She 
laid her book on her knee, asked a few kind, discreet 
questions, and after dinner Esther hurried towards the 
Underground. 

The door of the cottage was open, and as she crossed 
the little garden she heard Mrs. Lewis say — 

“Now you must be a good boy, and not go out in the 
garden and spoil your new clothes.’’ And when 
Esther entered Mrs. Lewis was giving the finishing 
touches to the necktie which she had just tied. “Now 
you’ll go and sit on that chair, like a good boy, and 
wait there till your father comes. ’ ’ 

“Oh, here’s mummie,’’ cried the boy, and he darted 
out of Mrs. Lewis’s hand. “Look at my new clothes, 
mummie; look at them!’’ And Esther saw her boy 
dressed in a suit of velveteen knickerbockers with 
brass buttons, and a sky-blue necktie. 


ESTHER WATERS 289 

“His father — I mean Mr. Latch — came here on 
Thursday morning, and took him to ’ ’ 

“Took me up to London ” 

“And brought him back in those clothes.” 

“We went to such a big shop in Oxford Street for 
them, and they took down many suits before they could 
get one to fit. Father is that difficult to please, and I 
thought we should go away without any clothes, and I 
couldn’t walk about London with father in these old 
things. Aren’t they shabby?’’ he added, kicking them 
contemptuously. . It was a little grey suit that Esther 
had made for him with her own hands. 

“Father had me measured for another suit, but 
it won’t be ready for a few days. Father took me to 
the Zoological Gardens, and we saw the lions and 
tigers, and there are such a lot of monkeys. There is 

one But what makes you look so cross, mummie 

dear? Don’t you ever go out with father in London? 
London is such a beautiful place. And then we 
walked through the park and saw a lot of boys sailing 
boats. Father asked me if I had a boat. I said you 
couldn’t afford to buy me toys. He said that was hard 
lines on me, and on the way back to the station we 
stopped at a toy-shop and he bought me a boat. May 
I show you my boat?’’ 

Jackie was too much occupied with thoughts of his 
boat to notice the gloom that was gathering on his 
mother’s face ; Mrs. Lewis wished to call upon him to 
desist, but before she could make up her mind what to 
do, he had brought the toy from the table and was 
forcing it into his mother’s hands. “This is a cutter- 
rigged boat, because it has three sails and only one 
mast. Father told me it was. He’ll be here in half- 


290 


ESTHER WATERS 


an-hour; we’re going to sail the boat in the pond on 
the Rye, and if it gets across all right he’ll take me to 
the park where there’s a big piece of water, twice, 
three times as big as the water on the Rye. Do you 
think, mummie, that I shall ever be able to get my 
boat across such a piece of water as the — I’ve forgotten 
the name. What do they call it, mummie?” 

“Oh, I don’t know; don’t bother me with your 
boat.” 

“Oh, mummie, what have I done that you won’t 
look at my boat? Aren’t you coming with father to 
the Rye to see me sail it?” 

“I don’t want to go with you. You want me no 
more. I can’t afford to give you boats. . . . 

Come, don’t plague me any more with your toy,” she 
said, pushing it away, and then in a moment of con- 
vulsive passion she threw the boat across the room. It 
struck the opposite wall, its mast was broken, and the 
sails and cords made a tangled little heap. Jackie ran 
to his toy, he picked it up, and his face showed his 
grief. “I shan’t be able to sail my boat now; it won’t 
sail, its mast and the sails is broke. Mummie, what 
did you break my boat for?” and the child burst into 
tears. At that moment William entered. 

“What is the child crying for?” he asked, stopping 
abruptly on the threshold. There was a slight tone of 
authority in his voice which angered Esther still more. 

“What is it to you what he is crying for?” she said, 
turning quickly round. “What has the child got to do 
with you that you should come down ordering people 
about for? A nice sort of mean trick, and one that 
is just like you. You beg and pray of me to let you 
see the child, and when I do you come down here on 


ESTHER WATERS 


291 


the sly, and with the present of a suit of clothes and a 
toy boat you try to win his love away from his mother. ’ ’ 

“Esther, Esther, I never thought of getting his love 
from you. I meant no harm. Mrs. Lewis said that 
he was looking a trifle moped; we thought that a 
change would, do him good, and so “ 

“Ah! it was Mrs. Lewis that asked you to take him 
up to London. It is a strange thing what a little money 
will do. Ever since you set foot in this cottage she has 
been curtseying to you, handing you chairs. I didn’t 
much like it, but I didn’t think that she would round 
on me in this way.” Then turning suddenly on her 
old friend, she said, “Who told you to let him have the 
child? . . . Is it he or I who pays you for his 

keep? Answer me that. How much did he give you 
— a new dress?’’ 

“Oh, Esther, I am surprised at you: I didn’t think 
it would come to accusing me of being bribed, and 
after all these years. ’ ’ Mrs. Lewis put her apron to 
her eyes, and Jackie stole over to his father. 

“It wasn’t I who smashed the boat, it was mummie; 
she’s in a passion. I don’t know why she smashed it. 
I didn’t do nothing.’’ 

William took the child on his knee. 

“She didn’t mean to smash it. There’s a good boy, 
don’t cry no more.” 

Jackie looked at his father. “Will you buy me 
another? The shops aren’t open to-day. ’ ’ Then get- 
ting off his father’s knee he picked up the toy, and 
coming back he said, “Could we mend the boat some- 
how? Do you think we could?’’ 

“Jackie, dear, go away; leave your father alone. 
Go into the next room, ’ ’ said Mrs. Lewis. 


2g2 


ESTHER WATERS 


“No, he can stop here; let him be,” said Esther. 

‘ ‘ I want to have no more to say to him, he can look to 
his father for the future. “ Esther turned on her heel 
and walked straight for the door. But dropping 
his boat with a cry, the little fellow ran after 
her and clung to her skirt despairingly. “No, 
mummie dear, you mustn’t go; never mind the 
boat; I love you better than the boat — I’ll do without 
a boat.” 

“Esther, Esther, this is all nonsense. Just listen.” 

“No, I won’t listen to you. But you shall listen to 
me. When I brought you here last week you asked me 
in the train what I had been doing all these years. I 
didn’t answer you, but I will now. I’ve been in the 
workhouse. * ’ 

“In the workhouse!” 

“Yes, do that surprise you?” 

Then jerking out her words, throwing them at him 
as if they were half -bricks, she told him the story of 
the last eight years — Queen Charlotte’s hospital, Mrs. 
Rivers, Mrs. Spires, the night on the Embankment, 
and the workhouse. 

“And when I came out of the workhouse I travelled 
London in search of sixteen pounds a year wages, 
which was the least I could do with, and when I didn’t 
find them I sat here and ate dry bread. She’ll tell 
you — she saw it all. I haven’t said nothing about the 
shame and sneers I had to put up with — you would 
understand nothing about that, — and there was more 
than one situation I was thrown out of when they 
found I had a child. For they didn’t like loose women 
in their houses; I had them very words said about 
me. And while I was going through all that you was 


ESTHER WATERS 


293 


living in riches with a lady in foreign parts ; and now 
when she could put up with you no longer, and you’re 
kicked out, you come to me and ask for your share of 
the child. Share of the child ! What share is yours, 
I’d like to know?” 

“Esther!” 

“In your mean, underhand way you come here on 
the sly to see if you can’t steal the love of the child 
from me. ’ ’ 

She could speak no more ; her strength was giving 
way before the tumult K>f her passion, and the silence 
that had come suddenly into the room was more ter- 
rible than her violent words. William stood quaking, 
horrified, wishing the earth would swallow him ; Mrs. 
Lewis watched Esther’s pale face, fearing that she 
would faint; Jackie, his grey eyes open round, held his 
broken boat still in his hand. The sense of the scene 
had hardly caught on his childish brain ; he was very 
frightened ; his tears and sobs were a welcome inter- 
vention. Mrs. Lewis took him in her arms and tried 
to soothe him. William tried to speak; his lips 
moved, but no words came. 

Mrs. Lewis whispered, “You’ll get no good out of 
her now, her temper’s up; you’d better go. She 
don’t know what she’s a- saying of.” 

“If one of us has to go,” said William, taking the 
hint, “there can’t be much doubt which of us.” He 
stood at the door holding his hat, just as if he were 
going to put it on. Esther stood with her back turned 
to him. At last he said — 

“Good-bye, Jackie. I suppose you don’t want to see 
me again?” 

For reply Jackie threw his boat away and clung to 


294 


ESTHER WATERS 


Mrs. Lewis for protection. William’s face showed 
that he was pained by Jackie’s refusal. 

“Try to get your mother to forgive me; but you are 
right to love her best. She’s been a good mother to 
you.’’ He put on his hat and went without another 
word. No one spoke, and every moment the silence 
grew more paralysing. Jackie examined his broken 
boat for a moment, and then he put it away, as if it 
had ceased to have any interest for him. There was 
no chance of going to the Rye that day ; he might as 
well take off his velvet suit ; besides, his mother liked 
him better in his old clothes. When he returned his 
mother was sorry for having broken his boat, and 
appreciated the cruelty. “You shall have another 
boat, my darling’ ’’ she said, leaning across the table 
and looking at him affectionately; “and quite as good 
as the one I broke.” 

“Will you, mummie? One with three sails, cutter- 
rigged, like that?” 

“Yes, dear, you shall have a boat with three 
sails. ’ ’ 

“When will you buy me the boat, mummie — 
to-morrow?” 

“As soon as I can, Jackie.” 

This promise appeared to satisfy him. Suddenly he 
looked — 

“Is father coming back no more?” 

“Do you want him back?” 

Jackie hesitated; his mother pressed him for an 
answer. 

“Not if you don’t, mummie.” 

“But if he was to give you another boat, one with 
four sails?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


295 


“They don’t have four sails, not them with one 
mast. ’ ’ 

“If he was to give you a boat with two masts, would 
you take it?” 

“I should try not to, I should try ever so hard.” 

There were tears in Jackie’s voice, and then, as 
if doubtful of his power to resist temptation, he 
buried his face in his mother’s bosom and sobbed 
bitterly. 

“You shall have another boat, my darling.” 

“I don’t want no boat at all! I love you better than 
a boat, mummie, indeed I do. ’ ’ 

“And what about those clothes? You’d sooner stop 
with me and wear those shabby clothes than go to him 
and wear a pretty velvet suit?” 

“You can send back the velvet suit.” 

“Can I? My darling, mummie will give you another 
velvet suit,” and she embraced the child with all her 
strength, and covered him with kisses. 

“But why can’t I wear that velvet suit, and why 
can’t father come back? Why don’t you like father? 
You shouldn’t be cross with father because he gave me 
the boat. He didn’t mean no harm.” 

“I think you like your father. You like him better 
than me.” 

“Not better than you, mummie.” 

“You wouldn’t like to have any other father except 
your own real father?” 

“How could I have a father that wasn’t my own real 
father?” 

Esther did not press the point, and soon after Jackie 
began to talk about the possibility of mending his boat ; 
and feeling that something irrevocable had happened. 


296 


ESTHER WATERS 


Esther put on her hat and jacket, and Mrs. Lewis and 
Jackie accompanied her to the station. The women 
kissed each other on the platform and were reconciled, 
but there was a vague sensation of sadness in the 
leave-taking which they did not understand. And 
Esther sat alone in a third-class carriage absorbed in 
consideration of the problem of her life. The life she 
had dreamed would never be hers — somehow she 
seemed to know that she would never be Fred’s wife. 
Everything seemed to point to the inevitableness of 
this end. 

She had determined to see William no more, but he 
wrote asking how she would like him to contribute 
towards the maintenance of the child, and this could 
not be settled without personal interviews. Miss Rice 
and Mrs. Lewis seemed to take it for granted that she 
would marry William when he obtained his divorce. 
He was applying himself to the solution of this diffi- 
culty, and professed himself to be perfectly satisfied 
with the course that events were taking. And when- 
ever she saw Jackie he inquired after his father; he 
hoped, too, that she had forgiven poor father, who had 
never meant no harm at all. Day by day she saw 
more clearly that her instinct was right in warning her 
not to let the child see William, that she had done 
wrong in allowing her feelings to be overruled by 
Miss Rice, who had, of course, advised her for the 
best. But it was clear to her now that Jackie never 
would take kindly to Fred as a stepfather; that he 
would never forgive her if she divided him from his 
real father by marrying another man. He would 
grow to dislike his stepfather more and more; and 
when he grew older he would keep away from the 


ESTHER WATERS 297 

house on account of the presence of his stepfather ; it 
would end by his going to live with him. He would 
be led into a life of betting and drinking ; she would 
lose her child if she married Fred. S 


/ 


XXVIL 


It was one evening as she was putting things away in 
the kitchen before going up to bed that she heard some 
one rap at the window. Could this be Fred? Her 
heart was beating; she must let him in. The area was 
in darkness ; she could see no one. 

“Who is there?” she cried. 

“It’s only me. I had to see you to-night on “ 

She drew an easier breath, and asked him to come in. 

William had expected a rougher reception. The 
tone in which Esther invited him in was almost 
genial, and there was no need of so many excuses ; but 
he had come prepared with excuses, and a few ran off 
his tongue before he was aware. 

“Well,” said Esther, “it is rather late. I was just 
going up to bed; but you can tell me what you’ve 
come about, if it won’t take long. ’ ’ 

“It won’t take long. . . . I’ve seen my solicitor 

this afternoon,, and he says that I shall find it very 
difficult to get a divorce. ’ ’ 

“So you can’t get your divorce?” 

“Are you glad?” 

“I don’t know.” 

“What do you mean? You must be either glad or 
sorry.” 

“I said what I mean. I am not given to telling 
lies. ’ ’ Esther set the large tin candlestick, on which 
a wick was spluttering, on the kitchen table, and Wil- 

298 


ESTHER WATERS 


299 


Ham looked at her inquiringly. She was always a bit 
of a mystery to him. And then he told her, speaking 
very quickly, how he had neglected to secure proofs of 
his wife’s infidelity at the time ; and as she had lived a 
circumspect although a guilty life ever since, the solic- 
itor thought that it would be difficult to establish a 
case against her. 

“Perhaps she never was guilty,” said Esther, unable 
to resist the temptation to irritate. 

“Not guilty! what do you mean? Haven’t I told 
you how I found them the day I came up from Ascot? 
. . . And didn’t she own up to it? What more 

proof do you want?” 

“Anyway, it appears you haven’t enough; what are 
you going to do? Wait until you catch her out?” 

“There is nothing else to do, unless ” William 

paused, and his eyes wandered from Esther’s. 

“Unless what?” 

“Well, you see my solicitors have been in communi- 
cation with her solicitors, and her solicitors say that if 
it were the other way round, that if I gave her reason 
to go against me for a divorce, she would be glad of 
the chance. That’s all they said at first, but since 
then I’ve seen my wife, and she says that if I’ll give 
her cause to get a divorce she’ll not only go for it, but 
will pay all the legal expenses; it won’t cost us a 
penny. What do you think, Esther?” 

“I don’t know that I understand. You don’t 
mean ” 

“You see, Esther, that to get a divorce — there’s no 
one who can hear us, is there?” 

“No, there’s no one in the ’ouse except me and the 
missus, and she’s in the study reading. Go on.” 


300 


ESTHER WATERS 


“It seems that one of the parties must go and live 
with another party before either can get a divorce. 
Do you understand?’' 

“You don’t mean that you want me to go and live 
with you, and perhaps get left a second time?’’ 

“That’s all rot, Esther, and you knows it.” 

“If that’s all you’ve got to say to me you’d better 
take your hook. ’ ’ 

“Do you see, there’s the child to consider? And 
you know well enough, Esther, that you’ve nothing to 
fear; you knows as well as can be that I mean to run 
straight this time. So I did before. But let bygones 
be bygones, and I know you’d like the child to have a 
father; so if only for his sake ” 

“For his sake! I like that; as if I hadn’t "done 
enough for him. Haven’t I worked and slaved myself 
to death and gone about in rags? That’s what that 
child has cost me. Tell me what he’s cost you. Not 
a penny piece — a toy boat and a suit of velveteen 
knickerbockers, — and yet you come telling me — I’d like 
to know what’s expected of me. Is a woman never to 
think of herself? Do I count for nothing? For the 
child’s sake, indeed! Now, if it was anyone else but 
you. Just tell me where do I come in? That’s what I 
want to know. I’ve played the game long enough. 
Where do I come in? That’s what I want to know.’’ 

“There’s no use flying in a passion, Esther. I know 
you’ve had a hard time. I know it was all very 
unlucky from the very first. But there’s no use saying 
that you might get left a second time, for you know 
well enough that that ain’t true. Say you won’t do it; 
you’re a free woman, you can act as you please. It 
would be unjust to ask you to give up anything 


ESTHER WATERS 


301 


more for the child; I agree with you in all that. 
But don’t fly in a rage with me because I came to 
tell you there was no other way out of the diffi- 
culty.” 

“You can go^nd live with another woman, and get 
a divorce that way. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I can do that; but I first thought I’d speak to 
you on the subject. For if I did go and live with 
another woman I couldn’t very well desert her after 
getting a divorce. ’ ’ 

“You deserted me.” 

“Why go back on that old story?” 

“It ain’t an old story, it’s the story of my life, and I 
haven’t come to the end of it yet. ” 

“Bht you’ll have got to the end of it if you’ll do 
what I say. ’ ’ 

A moment later Esther said — 

“I don’t know what you want to get a divorce for at 
all. I daresay your wife would take you back if you 
were to ask her. ’ ’ 

“She’s no children, and never will have none, and 
marriage is a poor look-out without children — all the 
worry and anxiety for nothing. What do we marry for 
but children? There’s no other happiness. I’ve tried 
everything else ’ ’ 

“But I haven’t.” 

“I know all that. I know you’ve had a damned hard 
time, Esther. I’ve had a good week at Doncaster, and 
have enough money to buy my partner out ; we shall 
’ave the ’ouse to ourselves, and, working together, I 
don’t think we’ll ’ave much difficulty in building it up 
into a very nice property, all of which will in time go 
to the boy. I’m doing pretty well, I told you, in the 


302 


ESTHER WATERS 


betting line, but if you like I’ll give it up. I’ll never 
lay or take the odds again. I can’t say more, Esther, 
can I? Come, say yes,” he said, reaching his arm 
towards her. 

“Don’t touch me,” she said surlily, and drew back a 
step with an air of resolution that made him doubt if 
he would be able to persuade her. 

“Now, Esther ” William did not finish. It 

seemed useless to argue with her, and he looked at the 
great red ash of the tallow candle. 

“You are the mother of my boy, so it is different; 
but to advise me to go and live with another woman! 
I shouldn’t have thought it of a religious girl like 
you. ’ ’ 

“Religion! There’s very little time for religion in 
the places I’ve had to work in.” Then, thinking of 
Fred, she added that she had returned to Christ, and 
hoped He would forgive her. William encouraged her 
to speak of herself, remarking that, chapel or no 
chapel, she seemed just as severe and particular as 
ever. “If you won’t, I can only say I am sorry; but 
that shan’t prevent me from paying you as much a 
week as you think necessary for Jack’s keep and his 
schooling. I don’t want the boy to cost you anything. 
I’d like to do a great deal more for the boy, but I can’t 
do more unless you make him my child.” 

“And I can only do that by going away to live with 
you?” The words brought an instinctive look of 
desire into her eyes. 

“In six months we shall be man and wife. . . . 

Say yes. ’ ’ 

“I can’t. ... I can’t, don’t ask me.” 

“You’re afraid to trust me, is that it?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


303 


Esther did not answer. 

“I can make that all right: I’ll settle ;;^5oo on you 
and the child. ’ ’ 

She looked up ; the same look was in her eyes, only 
modified, softened by some feeling of tenderness 
which had come into her heart. 

He put his arm round her; she was- leaning against 
the table ; he was sitting on the edge. 

“You know that I mean to act rightly by you.” 

“Yes, I think you do.” 

“Then say yes.” 

“I can’t — it is too late.” 

“There’s another chap?” 

She nodded. 

“I*thought as much. Do you care for him?” 

She did not answer. 

He drew her closer to him ; she did not resist ; he 
could see that she was weeping. He kissed her on her 
neck first, and then on her face ; and he continued to 
ask her if she loved the other chap. At last she signi- 
fied that she did not. 

“Then say yes.” She murmured that she could 
not. “You can, you can, you can.” He kissed her, 
all the while reiterating, “You can, you can, you can,” 
until it became a sort of parrot cry. Several minutes 
elapsed, and the candle began to splutter in its socket. 
She said — 

“Let me go; let me light the gas.” 

As she sought for the matches she caught sight of 
the clock. 

“I did not know it was so late.” 

“Say yes before I go.” 

“I can’t.” 


304 


ESTHER WATERS 


And it was impossible to extort a promise from her. 
“Fm too tired,” she said, “let me go.” 

He took her in his arms and kissed her, and said, 
“My own little wife.” 

As he went up the area steps she remembered that 
he had used the same words before. She tried to 
think of Fred, but William’s great square shoulders 
had come between her and this meagre little man. 
She sighed, and felt once again that her will was over- 
borne by a force which she could not control or under- 
stand. 


XXVIII. 


She went round the house bolting and locking the 
doors, seeing that everything was made fast for the 
night. At the foot of the stairs painful thoughts came 
upon her, and she drew her hand across her eyes ; for 
she was whelmed with a sense of sorrow, of purely 
mental misery, which she could not understand, and 
which she had not strength to grapple with. She was, 
however, conscious of the fact that life was proving too 
strong for her, that she could make nothing of it, and 
she thought that she did not care much what happened. 
She had fought with adverse fate, and had conquered 
in a way ; she had won countless victories over herself, 
and now found herself without the necessary strength 
for the last battle ; she had not even strength for blame, 
and merely wondered why she had let William kiss her. 
She remembered how she had hated him, and now she 
hated him no longer. She ought not to have spoken to 
him ; above all, she ought not to have taken him to see 
the child. But how could she help it? 

She slept on the same landing as Miss Rice, and was 
moved by a sudden impulse to go in and tell her the 
story of her trouble. But what good? No one could 
help her. She liked Fred ; they seemed to suit each 
other, and she could have made him a good wife if she 
had not met William. She thought of the cottage at 
Mortlake, and their lives in it; and she sought to 
stimulate her liking for him with thoughts of the 

305 


3o6 


ESTHER WATERS 


meeting-house ; she thought even of the simple black 
dress she would wear, and that life seemed so natural 
to her that she did not understand why she hesitated. 

. . . If she were to marry William she would go to 

the “King’s Head.” She would stand behind the bar; 
she would serve the customers. She had never seen 
much life, and felt somehow that she would like to see 
a little life ; there would not be much life in the cot- 
tage at Mortlake; nothing but the prayer-meeting. 
She stopped thinking, surprised at her thoughts. She 
had never thought like that before; it seemed as if 
some other woman whom she hardly knew was thinking 
for her. She seemed like one standing at cross-roads, 
unable to decide which road she would take. If she 
took the road leading to the cottage and the prayer- 
meeting her life would henceforth be secure. She 
could see her life from end to end, even to the time 
when Fred would come and sit by her, and hold her 
hand as she had seen his father and mother sitting 
side by side. If she took the road to the public-house 
and the race-course she did not know what might not 
happen. But William had promised to settle ;^5oo 
on her and Jackie. Her life would be secure either 
way. 

She must marry Fred ; she had promised to marry 
him ; she wished to be a good woman ; he would give 
her the life she was most fitted for, the life she had 
always desired ; the life of her father and mother, the 
life of her childhood. She would marry Fred, only — 
something at that moment seemed to take her by the 
throat. William had come between her and that life. 
If she had not met him at Woodview long ago; if she 
had not met him in the Pembroke Road that night she 


BSTHER WATERS 


307 


went to fetch the beer for her mistress’s dinner, how 
different everything would have been ! ... If she 

had met him only a few months later, when she was 
Fred’s wife! 

Wishing she might go to sleep, and awake the wife 
of one or the other, she fell asleep to dream of a hus- 
band possessed of the qualities of both, and a life that 
was neither all chapel nor all public-house. But soon 
the one became two, and Esther awoke in terror, 
believing she had married them both. 


XXIX. 


If Fred had said, “Come away with me,” Esther 
would have obeyed the elemental romanticism which 
is so fixed a principle in woman’s nature. But when 
she called at the shop he only spoke of his holiday, of 
the long walks he had taken, and the religious and 
political meetings he had attended. Esther listened 
vaguely; and there was in her mind unconscious regret 
that he was not a little different. Little irrelevant 
thoughts came upon her. She would like him better 
if he wore coloured neckties and a short jacket; she 
wished half of him away — ^his dowdiness, his sandy- 
coloured hair, the vague eyes, the black neckties, the 
long loose frock-coat. But his voice was keen and 
ringing, and when listening her heart always went out 
to him, and she felt that she might fearlessly entrust 
her life to him. But he did not seem wholly to under- 
stand her, and day by day, against her will, the thought 
gripped her more and more closely that she could not 
separate Jackie from his father. She would have to 
tell Fred the whole truth, and he would not under- 
stand it; that she knew. But it would have to be 
done, and she sent round to say she’d like to see him 
when he left business. Would he step round about 
eight o’clock? 

The clock had hardly struck eight when she heard a 
tap at the window. She opened the door and he came 
in, surprised by the silence with which she received 
him. 


308 


ESTHER WATERS 


309 


“I hope nothing has happened. Is anything the 
matter?” 

“Yes, a great deal’s the matter. I’m afraid we 
shall never be married, Fred, that’s what’s the 
matter. ’ ’ 

“How’s that, Esther? What can prevent us getting 
married?” She did not answer, and then he said, 
“You’ve not ceased to care for me?” 

“No, that’s not it.” 

“Jackie’s father has come back?” 

“You’ve hit it, that’s what happened.” 

“I’m sorry that man has come across you again. I 
thought you told me he was married. But, Esther, 
don’t keep me in suspense; what has he done?” 

“Sit down; don’t stand staring at me in that way, 
and I’ll tell you the story.” 

Then in a strained voice, in which there was genuine 
suffering, Esther told her story, laying special stress 
on the fact that she had done her best to prevent him 
from seeing the child. 

“I don’t see how you could have forbidden him 
access to the child. ’ ’ 

He often used words that Esther did not under- 
stand, but guessing his meaning, she answered — 

“That’s just what the missus said; she argued me 
into taking him to see the child. I knew once he’d 
seen Jackie there’d be no getting rid of him. I shall 
never get rid of him again.” 

“He has no claim upon you. It is just like him, low 
blackguard fellow that he is, to come after you, perse- 
cuting you. But don’t you fear ; you leave him to me. 
I’ll find a way of stopping his little game.” 

Esther looked at his frail figure. 


310 


ESTHER WATERS 


“You can do nothing; no one can do nothing,” she 
said, and the tears trembled in her handsome eyes. 
“He wants me to go away and live with him, so that 
his wife may be able to divorce him. ’ ’ 

“Wants you to go away and live with him! But 

surely, Esther, you do not ’ ’ 

“Yes, he wants me to go and live with him, so that 
his wife can get a divorce,” Esther answered, for the 
suspense irritated her; “and how can I refuse to go 
with him?” 

“Esther, are you serious? You cannot . 

You told me that you did not love him, and after 

all ’ ’ He waited for Esther to speak. 

“Yes,” she said very quickly, “there is no way out 
of it that I can see.” 

“Esther, that man has tempted you, and you have 
not prayed. ’ ’ 

She did not answer. 

“I don’t want to hear more of this,” he said, catch- 
ing up his hat. “I shouldn’t have believed it if I had 
not heard it from your lips ; no, not if the whole world 
had told me. You are in love with this man, though 
you may not know it, and you’ve invented this story as 
a pretext to throw me over. Good-bye, Esther. ’ ’ 
“Fred, dear, listen, hear me out. You’ll not go 
away in that hasty way. You’re the only friend I 
have. Let me explain.” 

“Explain! how can such things be explained?” 
“That’s what I thought until all this happened to 
me. I have suffered dreadful in the last few days. 
I’ve wept bitter tears, and I thought of all you said 
about the 'ome you was going to give me. ’ ’ Her sin- 
cerity was unmistakable, and Fred doubted her no 


ESTHER WATERS 


311 

longer. “I’m very fond of you, Fred, and if things 
had been different I think I might have made you a 
good wife. But it wasn’t to be. ” 

“Esther, I don’t understand. You need never see 
this man again if you don’t wish it.” 

“Nay, nay, things ain’t so easily changed as all that. 
He’s the father of my child, he’s got money, and he’ll 
leave his money to his child if he’s made Jackie’s 
father in the eyes of the law. ” 

“That can be done without your going to live with 
him.” 

“Not as he wants. I know what he wants; he wants 
a ’ome, and he won’t be put off with less.” 

“How men can be so wicked as ” 

“No, you do him wrong. He ain’t no more wicked 
than another; he’s just one of the ordinary sort — not 
much better or worse. If he’d been a real bad lot it 
would have been better for us, for then he’d never 
have come between us. You’re beginning to under- 
stand, Fred, ain’t you? If I don’t go with him my 
boy’ll lose everything. He wants a ’ome — a real ’ome 
with children, and if he can’t get me he’ll go after 
another woman. ’ ’ 

“And are you jealous?” 

“No, Fred. But think if we was to marry. As like 
as not I should have children, and they’d be more in 
your sight than my boy. ’ ’ 

“Esther, I promise that ” 

“Just so, Fred; even if you loved him like your own, 
you can’t make sure that he’d love you.” 

“Jackie and I ” 

“Ah, yes; he’d have liked you well enough if he’d 
never seen his father. But he’s that keen on his 


312 


ESTHER WATERS 


father, and it would be worse later on. He’d never 
be contented in our ’ome. He’d be always after him, 
and then I should never see him, and he would be led 
away into betting and drink.” 

‘ ‘ If his father is that sort of man, the best chance for 
Jackie would be to keep him out of his way. If he 
gets divorced and marries another woman he will for- 
get all about Jackie.” 

“Yes, that might be,” said Esther, and Fred pur- 
sued his advantage. But, interrupting him, Esther 
said — 

“Anyway, Jackie would lose all his father’s money; 
the public-house would ” 

“So you’re going to live in a public-house, Esther?” 

“A woman must be with her husband.” 

“But he’s not your husband; he’s another woman’s 
husband.” 

“He’s to marry me when he gets his divorce.” 

“He may desert you and leave you with another 
child. ’ ’ 

“You can’t say nothing I ain’t thought of already. 
I must put up with the risk. I suppose it is a part of 
the punishment for the first sin. We can’t do wrong 
without being punished — at least women can’t. But I 
thought I’d been punished enough.” 

“The second sin is worse than the first. A married 
man, Esther — you who I thought so religious.” 

“Ah, religion is easy enough at times, but there is 
other times when it don’t seem to fit in with one’s 
duty. I may be wrong, but it seems natural like — he’s 
the father of my child. ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid your mind is made up, Esther. Think 
twice before it’s too late. ” 


ESTHER WATERS 


313 


“Fred, I can’t help myself — can’t yon see that? 
Don’t make it harder for me by talking like that.” 

“When are you going to him?” 

“To-night; he’s waiting for me.” 

“Then good-bye, Esther, good ” 

“But you’ll come and see us.” 

“I hope you’ll be happy, Esther, but I don’t think 
we shall see much more of each other. You know that 
I do not frequent public-houses. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I know; but you might come and see mein 
the morning when we’re doing no business.” 

Fred smiled sadly. 

“Then you won’t come?” she said. 

“Good-bye, Esther.” 

They shook hands, and he went out hurriedly. She 
dashed a tear from her eyes, and went upstairs to her 
mistress, who had rung for her. 

Miss Rice was in her easy-chair, reading. A long, 
slanting ray entered the room ; the bead curtain glit- 
tered, and so peaceful was the impression that Esther 
could not but perceive the contrast between her own 
troublous life and the contented privacy of this slender 
little spinster’s. 

“Well, miss,” she said, “it’s all over. I’ve told 
him.” 

“Have you, Esther?” said Miss Rice. Her white, 
delicate hands fell over the closed volume. She wore 
two little colourless rings and a ruby ring which 
caught the light. 

“Yes, miss, I’ve told him all. He seemed a good 
deal cut up. I couldn’t help crying myself, for I could 
have made him a good wife — I’m sure I could; but it 
wasn’t to be.” 


314 


ESTHER WATERS 


“You’ve told him you were going off to live with 
William?” 

“Yes, miss; there’s nothing like telling the whole 
truth while you’re about it. I told him I was going off 
to-night. ’ ’ 

“He’s a very religious young man?” 

“Yes, miss; he spoke to me about religion, but I told 
him I didn’t want Jackie to be a fatherless boy, and to 
lose any money he might have a right to. It don’t 
look right to go and live with a married man ; but you 
knows, miss, how I’m situated, and you knows that I’m 
only doing it because it seems for the best.” 

“What did he say to that?” 

“Nothing much, miss, except that I might get left a 
second time — and, he wasn’t slow to add, with another 
child. ’ ’ 

. “Have you thought of that danger, Esther?” 

“Yes, miss, I’ve thought of everything; but think- 
ing don’t change nothing. Things remain just the 
same, and you’ve to chance it in the end — leastways a 
woman has. Not on the likes of you, miss, but the 
likes of us. ’ ’ 

“Yes,” said Miss Rice reflectively, “it is always the 
woman who is sacrificed.” And her thought went 
back for a moment to the novel she was writing. It 
seemed to her pale and conventional compared with 
this rough page torn out of life. She wondered if she 
could treat the subject. She passed in review the 
names of some writers who could do justice to it, and 
then her eyes went from her bookcase to Esther. 

“So you’re going to live in a public-house, Esther? 
You’re going to-night? I’ve paid you everything I 
owe you?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


315 


“Yes, miss, you have; you’ve been very kind to me, 
indeed you have, miss — I shall never forget you, miss. 
I’ve been very happy in your service, and should like 
nothing better than to remain on with you.’’ 

“All I can say, Esther, is that you have been a very 
good servant, and I’m very sorry to part with you. 
And I hope you’ll remember if things do not turn out 
as well as you expect them to, that I shall always be 
glad to do anything in my power to help you. You’ll 
always find a friend in me. When are you going?’’ 

“As soon as my box is packed, miss, and I shall 
have about finished by the time the new servant comes 
in. She’s expected at nine; there she is, miss — that’s 
the area bell. Good-bye, miss.’’ 

Miss Rice involuntarily held out her hand. Esther 
took it, and thus encouraged she said — 

“There never was anyone that clear-headed and 
warm-hearted as yerself, miss. I may have a lot of 
trouble, miss. . . . If I wasn’t yer servant I’d like 

to kiss 5^ou. ’ ’ 

Miss Rice did not answer, and before she was aware, 
Esther had taken her in her arms and kissed her. 
“You’re not angry with me, miss; I couldn’t help 
myself. ’ ’ 

“No, Esther, I’m not angry.’’ 

“I must go now and let her in.’’ 

Miss Rice walked towards her writing-table, and a 
sense of the solitude of her life coming upon her sud- 
denly caused her to burst into tears. It was one of 
those moments of effusion which take women 
unawares. But her new servant was coming upstairs 
and she had to dry her eyes. 

Soon after she heard the cabman’s feet on the stair- 


ESTHER WATERS 


316 

case as he went up for Esther’s box. They brought it 
down together, and Miss Rice heard her beg of him to 
be careful of the paint. The girl had been a good and 
faithful servant to her; she was sorry to lose her. 
And Esther was equally sorry that anyone but herself 
should have the looking after of that dear, kind soul. 
But what could she do? She was going to be married. 
She did not doubt that William was going to marry 
her; and the cab had hardly entered the Brompton 
Road when her thoughts were fully centred in the life 
that awaited her. This sudden change of feeling sur- 
prised her, and she excused herself with the recollec- 
tion that she had striven hard for Fred, but as she had 
failed to get him, it was only right that she should 
think of her husband. Then quite involuntarily the 
thought sprang upon her that he was a fine fellow, and 
she remembered the line of his stalwart figure as he 
walked down the street. There would be a parlour 
behind the bar, in which she would sit. She would be 
mistress of the house. There would be a servant, a 
potboy, and perhaps a barmaid. 

The cab swerved round the Circus, and she won- 
dered if she were capable of conducting a business like 
the “King’s Head.’’ 

It was the end of a fine September evening, and the 
black, crooked perspectives of Soho seemed as if they 
were roofed with gold. A slight mist was rising, and 
at the end of every street the figures appeared and dis- 
appeared mysteriously in blue shadow. She had 
never been in this part of London before ; the adven- 
ture stimulated her imagination, and she wondered 
where she was going and which of the many public- 
houses was hers. But the cabman jingled past every 


ESTHER WATERS 


317 


one. It seemed as if he were never going to pull up. 
At last he stopped at the corner of Dean Street and 
Old Compton Street, nearly opposite a cab rank. The 
cabmen were inside, having a glass ; the usual vagrant 
was outside, looking after the horses. He offered to 
take down Esther’s box, and when she asked him if he 
had seen Mr. Latch he took her round to the private 
bar. The door was pushed open, and Esther saw 
William leaning over the counter wrapped in conver- 
sation with a small, thin man. They were both smok- 
ing, their glasses were filled, and the sporting paper 
was spread out before them. 

“Oh, so here you are at last,” said William, coming 
towards her. ‘ ‘ I expected you an hour ago. ’ ’ 

“The new servant was late, and I couldn’t leave 
before she came.” 

“Never mind; glad you’ve come.” 

Esther felt that the little man was staring hard at 
her. He was John Randal, or Mr. Leopold, as they 
used to call him at Barfield. 

Mr. Leopold shook hands with Esther, and he mut- 
tered a “Glad to see you again.” But it was the wel- 
come of a man who regards a woman’s presence as an 
intrusion, and Esther understood the quiet contempt 
with which he looked at William. “Can’t keep away 
from them,” his face said for one brief moment. 
William asked Esther what she’d take to drink, and 
Mr. Leopold looked at his watch and said he must be 
getting home. 

“Try to come round to-morrow night if you’ve an 
hour to spare.” 

“Then you don’t think you’ll go to Newmarket?” 

“No, I don’t think I shall do much in the betting 


ESTHER WATERS 


318 

way this year. But come round to-morrow night if 
you can; you’ll find me here. I must be here 
to-morrow night,” he said, turning to Esther; “I’ll 
tell you presently.” Then the men had a few more 
words, and William bade John good-night. Coming 
back to Esther, he said — 

“What do you think of the place? Cosy, ain’t it?” 
But before she had time to reply he said, “You’ve 
brought me good luck. I won two ’undred and fifty 
pounds to-day, and the money will come in very ’andy, 
for Jim Stevens, that’s my partner, has agreed to take 
half the money on account and a bill of sale for the 
rest. There he is; I’ll introduce you to him. Jim, 
come this way, will you?” 

“In a moment, when I’ve finished drawing this ’ere 
glass of beer,” answered a thick- set, short-limbed man. 
He was in his shirt-sleeves, and he crossed the bar 
wiping the beer from his hands. 

“Let me introduce you to a very particular friend of 
mine, Jim, Miss Waters.” 

“Very ’appy, I’m sure, to make your acquaintance,” 
said Jim, and he extended his fat hand across the 
counter. “You and my partner are, I ’ear, going to 
take this ’ere 'ouse off my hands. Well, you ought to 
make a good thing of it. There’s always room for a 
’ouse that supplies good liquor. What can I hoffer 
you, madam? Some of our whisky has been fourteen 
years in bottle; or, being a lady, perhaps you’d like 
to try some of our best unsweetened.” 

Esther declined, but William said they could not 
leave without drinking the health of the house. 

“Irish or Scotch, ma’am? Mr. Latch drinks 
Scotch.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


319 

Seeing that she could not avoid taking something, 
Esther decided that she would try the unsweetened. 
The glasses were clinked across the counter, and Wil- 
liam whispered, “This isn’t what we sell to the public; 
this is our own special tipple. You didn’t notice, 
perhaps, but he took the bottle from the third row on 
the left.’’ 

At that moment Esther’s cabman came in and 
wanted to know if he was to have the box taken down, 
William said it had better remain where it was. 

“I don’t think I told you I’m not living here; my 
partner has the upper part of the house, but he says 
he’ll be ready to turn out at the end of the week. I*m 
living in lodgings near Shaftesbury Avenue, so we’d 
better keep the cab on. ’ ’ 

Esther looked disappointed, but said nothing. Wil- 
liam said he’d stand the cabby a drink, and, winking 
at Esther, he whispered, “Third row on the left, 
partner,*' 


XXX. 


The “King’s Head” was an humble place in the old- 
fashioned style. The house must have been built two 
hundred years, and the bar seemed as if it had been 
dug out of the house. The floor was some inches 
lower than the street, and the ceiling was hardly more 
than a couple of feet above the head of a tall man. 
Nor was it divided by numerous varnished partitions, 
according to the latest fashion. There were but three. 
The private entrance was in Dean Street, where a few 
swells came over from the theatre and called for 
brandies-and-sodas. There was a little mahogany 
what-not on the counter, and Esther served her cus- 
tomers between the little shelves. The public 
entrance and the jug and bottle entrance were in a 
side street. There was no parlour for special custom- 
ers at the back, and the public bar was inconveniently 
crowded by a dozen people. The “King’s Head’’ was 
not an up-to-date public-house. It had, however, one 
thing in its favour — it was a free house, and William 
said they had only to go on supplying good stuff, and 
trade would be sure to come back to them. For their 
former partner had done them much harm by 
systematic adulteration, and a little way down the 
street a new establishment, with painted tiles and 
brass lamps, had been opened, and was attracting all 
the custom of the neighbourhood. She was more anx- 
ious than William to know what loss the books showed ; 
she was jealous of the profits of his turf account, and 

320 


ESTHER WATERS 


321 


when he laughed at her she said, “But you’re never 
here in the daytime, you do not have these empty bars 
staring you in the face morning and afternoon. ’ ’ And 
then she would tell him : a dozen pots of beer about 
dinner-time, a few glasses of bitter — there had been a 
rehearsal over the way — and that was about all. 

The bars were empty, and the public-house dozed 
through the heavy heat of a summer afternoon. 
Esther sat behind the bar sewing, waiting for Jackie to 
come home from school. William was away at New- 
market. The clock struck five and Jackie peeped 
through the doors, dived under the counter, and ran 
into his mother’s arms. 

“Well, did you get full marks to-day?” 

“Yes, mummie, I got full marks.” 

“That’s a good boy — and you want your tea?” 

“Yes, mummie; I’m that hungry I could hardly 
walk home.” 

“Hardly walk home! What, as bad as that?” 

“Yes, mummie. There’s a new shop open in Oxford 
Street. The window is all full of boats. Do you think 
that if all the favourites were to be beaten for a month, 
father would buy me one?” 

“I thought you was so hungry you couldn’t walk 
home, dear?” 

“Well, mummie, so I was, but ” 

Esther laughed. “Well, come this way and have 
your tea. ’ ’ She went into the parlour and rang the 
bell. 

“Mummie, may I have buttered toast?” 

“Yes, dear, you may. ’ ’ 

“And may I go downstairs and help Jane to make 
it?” 


322 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Yes, you can do that too; it will save her the 
trouble of coming up. Let me take off your coat — 
give me your hat; now run along, and help Jane to 
make the toast.” 

Esther opened a glass door, curtained with red silk ; 
it led from the bar to the parlour, a tiny room, hardly 
larger than the private bar, holding with difficulty a 
small round table, three chairs, an arm-chair, a cup- 
board. In the morning a dusty window let in a melan- 
choly twilight, but early in the afternoon it became 
necessary to light the gas. Esther took a cloth from 
the cupboard, and laid the table for Jackie’s tea. He 
came up the kitchen stairs telling Jane how many 
marbles he had won, and at that moment voices were 
heard in the bar. 

It was William, tall and gaunt, buttoned up in a 
grey frock-coat, a pair of field glasses slung over his 
shoulders. He was with his clerk, Fred Blamer, a 
feeble, wizen little man, dressed in a shabby tweed 
suit, covered with white dust. 

“Put that bag down, Teddy, and come and have a 
drink.” 

Esther saw at once that things had not gone well 
with him. 

“Have the favourites been winning?” 

“Yes, every bloody one. Five first favourites 
straight off the reel, three yesterday, and two second 
favourites the day before. By God, no man can stand 
up against it. Come, what’ll you have to drink, 
Teddy?” 

“A little whisky, please, guv’nor. ” 

The men had their drink. Then William told Teddy 
to take his bag upstairs, and he followed Esther into 


ESTHER WATERS 


323 


the parlour. She could see that he had been losing 
heavily, but she refrained from asking questions. 

“Now, Jackie, you keep your father company ; tell 
him how you got on at school. I’m going downstairs 
to look after his dinner. ’ ’ 

“Don’t you mind about my dinner, Esther, don’t you 
trouble; I was thinking of dining at a restaurant. I’ll 
be back at nine.’’ 

“Then I’ll see nothing of you. We’ve hardly 
spoken to one another this week ; all the day you’re 
away racing, and in the evening you’re talking to your 
friends over the bar. We never have a moment 
alone. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Esther, I know; but the truth is, I’m a bit 
down in the mouth. I’ve had a very bad week. The 
favourites has been winning, and I overlaid my book 
against Wheatear; I’d heard that she was as safe as 
’ouses. I’ll meet some pals down at the ‘Cri’; it will 
cheer me up.” 

Seeing how disappointed she was, he hesitated, and 
asked what there was for dinner. “A sole and a nice 
piece of steak; I’m sure you’ll like it. I’ve a lot to 
talk to you about. Do stop. Bill, to please me. ’ ’ She 
was very winning in her quiet, grave way, so he took 
her in his arms, kissed her, and said he would stop, 
that no one could cook a sole as she could, that it gave 
him an appetite to think of it. 

“And may I stop with father while you are cooking 
his dinner?’’ said Jackie. 

“Yes, you can do that; but you must go to bed 
when I bring it upstairs. I want to talk with father 
then.” 

Jackie seemed quite satisfied with this arrangement, 


324 


ESTHER WATERS 


but when Esther came upstairs with the sole, and was 
about to hand him over to Jane, he begged lustily to 
be allowed to remain until father had finished his fish. 
“It won’t matter to you,” he said; “you’ve to go 
downstairs to fry the steak. ’ ’ 

But when she came up with the steak he was 
unwilling as ever to leave. She said he must go to 
bed, and he knew from her tone that argument was 
useless. As a last consolation, she promised him that 
she would come upstairs and kiss him before he went 
to sleep. 

“You will come, won’t you, mummie? I shan’t go 
to sleep till you do.’’ Esther and William both 
laughed, and Esther was pleased, for she was still a 
little jealous of his love for his father. 

“Come along,’’ Jackie cried to Jane, and he ran 
upstairs, chattering to her about the toys he had seen 
in Oxford Street. Charles was lighting the gas, and 
Esther had to go into the bar to serve some custom- 
ers. When she returned, William was smoking his 
pipe. Her dinner had had its effect, he had forgotten 
his losses, and was willing to tell her the news. He 
had a bit of news for her. He had seen Ginger; 
Ginger had come up as cordial as you like, and had 
asked him what price he was laying. 

“Did he bet with you?’’ 

“Yes, I laid him ten pounds to five.’’ 

Once more William began to lament his luck. 
“You’ll have better luck to-morrow,’’ she said. “The 
favourites can’t go on winning. Tell me about 
Ginger. ’ ’ 

“There isn’t much to tell. We’d a little chat. He 
knew all about the little arrangement, the five hun- 


ESTHER WATERS 


325 


dred, you know, and laughed heartily. Peggy’s 
married. I’ve forgotten the chap’s name.” 

“The one that you kicked downstairs?” 

“No, not him; I can’t think of it. No matter. 
Ginger remembered you ; he wished us luck, took the 
address, and said he’d come in to-night to see you if 
he possibly could. I don’t think he’s been doing too 
well lately, if he had he’d been more stand-offish. I 
saw Jimmy White — you remember Jim, the little fel- 
low we used to call the Demon, ’e that won the Stew- 
ards’ Cup on Silver Braid? . . . Didn’t you and 

’e ’ave a tussle together at the end of dinner — the first 
day you come down from town?” 

“The second day it was.” 

“You’re right, it was the second day. The first day 
I met you in the avenue I was leaning over the rail- 
ings having a smoke, and you come along with a heavy 
bundle and asked me the way. I wasn’t in service at 
that time. Good Lord, how time does slip by! It 
seems like yesterday. . . . And after all those 

years to meet you as you was going to the public for a 
jug of beer, and ’ere we are man and wife sitting side 
by side in our own ’ouse. ’ ’ 

Esther had been in the “King’s Head” now nearly a 
year. The first Mrs. Latch had got her divorce with- 
out much difficulty ; and Esther had begun to realise 
that she had got a good husband long before they 
slipped round to the nearest registry office and came 
back man and wife. 

Charles opened the door. “Mr. Randal is in the 
bar, sir, and would like to have a word with you.” 

‘All right,” said William. “Tell him I’m coming 
into the bar presently.” Charles withdrew. “I’m 


326 


ESTHER WATERS 


afraid,” said William, lowering his voice, “that the old 
chap is in a bad way. He’s been out of a place a long 
while, and will find it ’ard to get back again. Once 
yer begin to age a bit, they won’t look at you. We’re 
both well out of business. ’ ’ 

Mr. Randal sat in his favourite comer by the wall, 
smoking his clay. He wore a large frock-coat, vague 
in shape, pathetically respectable. The round hat was 
greasy round the edges, brown and dusty on top. The 
shirt was clean but unstarched, and the thin throat was 
tied with an old black silk cravat. He looked himself, 
the old servant out of situation — the old servant who 
would never be in situation again. 

“Been ’aving an ’ell of a time at Newmarket,” said 
William; “favourites romping in one after the other.” 

“I saw that the favourites had been winning. But I 
know of something, a rank outsider, for the Leger. I 
got the letter this morning. I thought I’d come round 
and tell yer.” 

“Much obliged, old mate, but it don’t do for me to 
listen to such tales; we bookmakers must pay no 
attention to information, no matter how correct it may 
be. . . . Much obliged all the same. What are 

you drinking?” 

“I’ve not finished my glass yet.” He tossed off the 
last mouthful. 

“The same?” said William. 

“Yes, thank you.” 

William drew two glasses of porter. “Here’s luck. ” 
The men nodded, drank, and then William turned to 
speak to a group at the other end of the bar. “One 
moment,” John said, touching William on the shoul- 
der. “It is the best tip I ever had in my life. I 


ESTHER WATERS 


327 


’aven’t forgotten what I owe you, and if this comes off 
I’ll be able to pay you all back. Lay the odds, twenty 

sovereigns to one against ” Old John looked 

round to see that no one was within ear-shot, then he 
leant forward and whispered the horse’s name in Wil- 
liam’s ear. William laughed. “If you’re so sure 
about it as all that,’’ he said, “I’d sooner lend you the 
quid to back the horse elsewhere.’’ 

“Will you lend me a quid?’’ 

“Lend you a quid and five first favourites romping 
in one after another! — ^you must take me for Baron 
Rothschild. You think because I’ve a public-house 
I’m coining money ; well, I ain’t. It’s cruel the busi- 
ness we do here. You wouldn’t believe it, and you 
know that better liquor can’t be got in the neighbour- 
hood. ’’ Old John listened with the indifference of a 
man whose life is absorbed in one passion and who can 
interest himself with nothing else. Esther asked him 
after Mrs. Randal and his children, but conversation 
on the subject was always disagreeable to him, and he 
passed it over with few words. As soon as Esther 
moved away he leant forward and whispered, “Lay 
me twelve pounds to ten shillings. I’ll be sure to pay 
you; there’s a new restaurant going to open in Oxford 
Street and I’m going to apply for the place of head- 
waiter. ’’ 

“Yes, but will you get it?’’ William answered 
brutally. He did not mean to be unkind, but his 
nature was as hard and as plain as a kitchen-table. 
The chin dropped into the unstarched collar and the 
old-fashioned necktie, and old John continued smoking 
unnoticed by any one. Esther looked at him. She 
saw he was down on his luck, and she remembered the 


328 


ESTHER WATERS 


tall, melancholy, pale-faced woman whom she had met 
weeping by the sea-shore the day that Silver Braid had 
won the cup. She wondered what had happened to her, 
in what corner did she live, and where was the son 
that John Randal had not allowed to enter the 
Barfield establishment as page-boy, thinking he would 
be able to make something better of him than a 
servant. 

The regular customers had begun to come in. 
Esther greeted them with nods and smiles of recogni- 
tion. She drew the beer two glasses at once in her 
hand, and picked up little zinc measures, two and four 
of whisky, and filled them from a small tap. She 
usually knew the taste of her customers. When she 
made a mistake she muttered “stupid,” and Mr. 
Ketley was much amused at her forgetting that he 
always drank out of the bottle ; he was one of the few 
who came to the “King’s Head” who could afford six- 
penny whisky. ‘ ‘ I ought to have known by this time, ’ ’ 
she said. “Well, mistakes will occur in the best regu- 
lated families,” the little butterman replied. He was 
meagre and meek, with a sallow complexion and blond 
beard. His pale eyes were anxious, and his thin, 
bony hands restless. His general manner was 
oppressed, ^d he frequently raised his hat to wipe his 
forehead, which was high and bald. At his elbow 
stood Journeyman, Ketley ’s very opposite. A tall, 
harsh, angular man, long features, a dingy com- 
plexion, and the air of a dismissed soldier. He held a 
glass of whisky-and- water in a hairy hand, and bit at 
the corner of a brown moustache. He wore a thread- 
bare black frock-coat, and carried a newspaper under 
his arm. Ketley and Journeyman held widely differ- 


ESTHER WATERS 


329 


ent views regarding the best means of backing horses. 
Ketley was preoccupied with dreams and omens; 
Journeyman, a clerk in the parish registry office, 
studied public form; he was guided by it in all his 
speculations, and paid little heed to the various 
rumours always afloat regarding private trials. Pub- 
lic form he admitted did not always come out right, 
but if a man had a headpiece and could remember all 
the running, public form was good enough to follow. 
Racing with Journeyman was a question of calcula- 
tion, and great therefore was his contempt for the 
weak and smiling Ketley, whom he went for on all 
occasions. But Ketley was pluckier than his appear- 
ance indicated, and the duels between the two were a 
constant source of amusement in the bar of the 
“King’s Head.” 

“Well, Herbert, the omen wasn’t altogether up to 
the mark this time,” said Journeyman, with a mali- 
cious twinkle in his small brown eyes. 

“No, it was one of them unfortunate accidents.” 

“One of them unfortunate accidents,” repeated 
Journeyman, derisively; “what’s accidents to do with 
them that ’as to do with the reading of omens? I 
thought they rose above such trifles as weights, dis- 
tances, bad riding. ... A stone or two should 
make no difiEerence if the omen is right. ’ ’ 

Ketley was no way put out by the slight titter that 
Journeyman’s retort had produced in the group about 
the bar. He drank his whisky-and- water deliberately, 
like one, to use a racing expression, who had been over 
the course before. 

“I’ve ’eard that argument. I know all about it, but 
it don’t alter me. Too many strange things occur for 


330 


ESTHER WATERS 


me to think that everything can be calculated with a 
bit of lead-pencil in a greasy pocket-book. ’ ’ 

“What has the grease of my pocket-book to do with 
it?” replied Journeyman, looking round. The com- 
pany smiled and nodded. “You says that signs and 
omens is above any calculation of weights. Never 
mind the pocket-book, greasy or not greasy; you says 
that these omens is more to be depended on than the 
best stable information. ’ ’ 

“I thought that you placed no reliance on stable 
information, and that you was guided by the weights 
that you calculated in that ’ere pocket-book.” 

“W’hat’s my pocket-book to do with it? You want 
to see my pocket-book ; well, here it is, and I’ll bet 
two glasses of beer that it ain’t greasier than any 
other pocket-book in this bar. ’ ’ 

“I don’t see meself what pocket-books, greasy or not 
greasy, has to do with it,” said William. “Walter put 
a fair question to Herbert. The omen didn’t come out 
right, and Walter wanted to know why it didn’t come 
out right.” 

“That was it,” said Journeyman. 

All eyes were now fixed on Ketley. “You want to 
know why the omen wasn’t right? I’ll tell you — 
because it was no omen at all, that’s why. The omens 
always comes right; it is we who aren’t always in the 
particular state of mind that allows us to read the 
omens right.” Journeyman shrugged his shoulders 
contemptuously. Ketley looked at him with the same 
expression of placid amusement. “You’d like me to 
explain ; well, I will. The omen is always right, but 
we aren’t always in the state of mind for the reading 
of the omen. You think that ridiculous, Walter; but 


ESTHER WATERS 


331 


why should omens differ from other things? Some 
days we can get through our accounts in ’alf the time 
we can at other times, the mind being clearer. I asks 
all present if that is not so. ’ ’ 

Ketley had got hold of his audience, and Journey- 
man’s remark about closing time only provoked a 
momentary titter. Ketley looked long and steadily at 
Journeyman and then said, “Perhaps closing time 
won’t do no more for your calculation of weights than 
for my omens. ... I know them jokes, we’ve 
’eard them afore; but I’m not making jokes; I’m talk- 
ing serious.’’ The company nodded approval. “I 
was saying there was times when the mind is fresh 
like the morning. That’s the time for them what ’as 
got the gift of reading the omens. It is a sudden light 
that comes into the mind, and it points straight like a 
ray of sunlight, if there be nothing to stop it. . . . 

Now do you understand?’’ No one had understood, 
but all felt that they were on the point of understand- 
ing. “The whole thing is in there being nothing to 
interrupt the light. ’ ’ 

“But you says yourself that yer can’t always read 
them,’’ said Journeyman; “an accident will send you 
off on the wrong tack, so it all comes to the same 
thing, omens or no omens.” 

“A man will trip over a piece of wire laid across the 
street, but that don’t prove he can’t walk, do it, 
Walter?” 

Walter was unable to say that it did not, and so 
Ketley scored another point over his opponent. “I 
made a mistake, I know I did, and if it will help you 
to understand I’ll tell you how it was made. Three 
weeks ago I was in this ’ere bar ’aving what I usually 


332 


ESTHER WATERS 


takes. It was a bit early; none of you fellows had 
come in. I don’t think it was much after eight. The 
governor was away in the north racin’ — hadn’t been 
’ome for three or four days; the missus was beginning 
to look a bit lonely. ’ ’ Ketley smiled and glanced at 
Esther, who had told Charles to serve some customers, 
and was listening as intently as the rest. “I’d ’ad a 
nice bit of supper, and was just feeling that fresh and 
clear ’eaded as I was explaining to you just now is 
required for the reading, thinking of nothing in per- 
ticler, when suddenly the light came. I remembered a 
conversation I ’ad with a chap about American corn. 
He wouldn’t ’ear of the Government taxing corn to 
’elp the British farmer. Well, that conversation came 
back to me as clear as if the dawn had begun to break. 
I could positively see the bloody corn ; I could pretty 
well ’ave counted it. I felt there was an omen about 
somewhere, and all of a tremble I took up the paper ; 
it was lying on the bar just where your hand is, 
Walter. But at that moment, just as I was about to 
cast my eye down the list of ’orses, a cab comes down 
the street as ’ard as it could tear. There was but two 
or three of us in the bar, and we rushed out — the 
shafts was broke, ’orse galloping and kicking, and the 
cabby ’olding on as ’ard as he could. But it was no 
good, it was bound to go, and over it went against the 
kerb. The cabby, poor chap, was pretty well shook to 
pieces; his leg was broke, and we’d to ’elp to take him 
to the hosspital. Now I asks if it was no more than 
might be expected that I should have gone wrong 
about the omen. Next day, as luck would have it, I 
rolled up ’alf a pound of butter in a piece of paper on 
which ‘Cross Roads’ was written.’’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


333 


“But if there had been no accident and you ’ad 
looked down the list of ’orses, ’ow do yer know that 
yer would ’ave spotted the winner?’’ 

“What, not Wheatear, and with all that American 
corn in my ’ead? Is it likely I’d ’ve missed it?” 

No one answered, and Ketley drank his whisky in 
the midst of a most thoughtful silence. At last one of 
the group said, and he seemed to express the general 
mind of the company — 

“I don’t know if omens be worth a-f olio wing of, but 
I’m bio wed if ’orses be worth backing if the omens is 
again them.’’ 

His neighbour answered, “And they do come won- 
derful true occasional. They ’as ’appened to me, and 
I daresay to all ’ere present.’’ The company nodded. 
“You’ve noticed how them that knows nothing at all 
about ’orses — the less they knows the better their 
luck — will look down the lot and spot the winner 
from pure fancy — the name that catches their eyes as 
likely. ’ ’ 

“There’s something in it,’’ said a corpulent butcher 
with huge, pursy, prominent eyes and a portentous 
stomach. “I always held with going to church, and 
I hold still more with going to church since I backed 
Vanity for the Chester Cup. I was a-f ailing asleep 
over the sermon, when suddenly I wakes up hearing, 
‘Vanity of vanities, and all is vanity.’ ’’ 

Several similar stories were told, and then various 
systems for backing horses were discussed. “You 
don’t believe that no ’orses is pulled?” said Mr. Stack, 
the porter at Sutherland Mansions, Oxford Street, a 
large, bluff man, wearing a dark blue square-cut frock 
coat with brass buttons. A curious-looking man, with 


334 


ESTHER WATERS 


red-stained skin, dark beady eyes, a scanty growth of 
beard, and a lond, assuming voice. “You don’t believe 
that no ’orses is pulled?’’ he reiterated. 

“I didn’t say that no ’orse was never pulled,’’ said 
Journeyman. He stood with his back leaning against 
the partition, his long legs stretched out. “If one was 
really in the know, then I don’t say nothing about it; 
but who of us is ever really in the know?’’ 

“I’m not so sure about that,” said Mr. Stack. 
“There’s a young man in my mansions that ’as a serv- 
ant; this servant’s cousin, a girl in the country, keeps 
company with one of the lads in the White House 
stable. If that ain’t good enough, I don’t know what 
is ; good enough for my half-crown and another pint 
of beer too, Mrs. Latch, as you’ll be that kind.” 

Esther drew the beer, and Old John, who had said 
nothing till now, suddenly joined in the conversation. 
He too had heard of something; he didn’t know if it 
was the same as Stack had heard of ; he didn’t expect 
it was. It couldn’t very well be, ’cause no one knew of 
this particular horse, not a soul — not ’alf-a-dozen people 
in the world. No, he would tell no one until his money 
and the stable money was all right. And he didn’t 
care for no half-crowns or dollars this time, if he 
couldn’t get a sovereign or two on the horse he’d let it 
alone. This time he’d be a man or a mouse. Every 
one was listening intently, but old John suddenly 
assumed an air of mystery and refused to say another 
word. The conversation worked back whither it had 
started, and again the best method of backing horses 
was passionately discussed. Interrupting someone 
whose theories seemed intolerably ludicrous. Journey- 
man said — 


ESTHER WATERS 


335 


“Let’s ’ear what’s the governor’s opinion; he ought 
to know what kind of backer gets the most out of him. ’ ’ 

Journeyman’s proposal to submit the question to the 
governor met with very general approval. Even the 
vagrant who had taken his tankard of porter to the 
bench where he could drink and eat what fragments 
of food he had collected, came forward, interested to 
know what kind of backer got most out of the book- 
maker. 

“Well,” said William, “I haven’t been making a 
book as long as some of them, but since you ask me 
what I think I tell you straight. I don’t care a damn 
whether they backs according to their judgment, or 
their dreams, or their fancy. The cove that follows 
favourites, or the cove that backs a jockey’s mount, 
the cove that makes an occasional bet when he hears 
of a good thing, the cove that bets regular, ’cording to 
a system — the cove, yer know, what doubles every 
time — or the cove that bets as the mood takes him — 
them and all the other coves, too numerous to be men- 
tioned, I’m glad to do business with. I cries out to 
one as ’eartily as to another: ‘The old firm, the old 
firm, don’t forget the old firm. . . . What can I 

do for you to-day, sir?’ There’s but one sort of cove I 
can’t abide. ” 

“ And he is ’’ said Journeyman. 

“He is Mr. George Buff.’’ 

“Who’s he? who’s he?” asked several; and the 
vagrant caused some amusement by the question, “Do 
’e bet on the course?” 

“Yes, he do,” said William, “an’ nowhere else. 
He’s at every meeting as reg’lar as if he was a bookie 
himself. I ’ates to see his face. . . . I’d be a rich 


336 


ESTHER WATERS 


man if I’d all the money that man ’as ’ad out of me in 
the last three years. ’ ’ 

“What should you say was his system?’’ asked Mr. 
Stack. 

“I don’t know no more than yerselves.’’ 

This admission seemed a little chilling; for every- 
one had thought himself many steps nearer El Dorado. 

“But did you ever notice,’’ said Mr. Ketley, “that 
there was certain days on which he bet?’’ 

“No, I never noticed that.’’ 

“Are they outsiders that he backs?’’ asked Stack.- 

“No, only favourites. But what I can’t make out is 
that there are times when he won’t touch them; and 
when he don’t, nine times out of ten they’re beaten.’’ 

“Are the ’orses he backs what you’d call well in?’’ 
said Journeyman. 

“Not always.’’ 

“Then it must be on information from the stable 
authorities?’’ said Stack. 

“I dun know,’’ said William; “have it that way if 
you like, but I’m glad there ain’t many about like 
him. I wish he’d take his custom elsewhere. He 
gives me the solid hump, he do.’’ 

“What sort of man should you say he was? ’as he 
been a servant, should you say?’’ asked old John. 

“I can’t tell you what he is. Always new suit of 
clothes and a hie-glass. Whenever I see that ’ere hie- 
glass and that brown beard my heart goes down in my 
boots. When he don’t bet he takes no notice, walks 
past with a vague look on his face, as if he didn’t see 
the people, and he don’t care that for the ’orses. 
Knowing he don’t mean no business, I cries to him, 
‘The best price, Mr. Buff; two to one on the field, ten 


ESTHER WATERS 


337 


to one bar two or three. ’ He just catches his hie-glass 
tighter in eye and looks at me, smiles, shakes his 
head, and goes on. He is a warm ’un; he is just 
about as *ot as they make ’em.” 

“What I can’t make out,” said Journeyman, “is 
why he bets on the course. You say he don’t know 
nothing about horses. Why don’t he remain at ’ome 
and save the exes?” 

“I’ve thought of all that,” said William, “and can’t 
make no more out of it than you can yerselves. All 
we know is that, divided up between five or six of us, 
Buff costs not far short of six ’undred a year.” 

At that moment a small blond man came into the 
bar. Esther knew him at once. It was Ginger. He 
had hardly changed at all — a little sallower, a little 
dryer, a trifle less like a gentleman. 

“Won’t you step round, sir, to the private bar?” said 
William. “You’ll be more comfortable.” 

“Hardly worth while. I was at the theatre, and 
I thought I’d come in and have a look round. . . . 

I see that you haven’t forgotten the old horses,” he 
said, catching sight of the prints of Silver Braid and 
Summer’s Dean which William had hung on the wall. 
“That was a great day, wasn’t it? Fifty to one 
chance, started at* thirty ; and you remember the Gaffer 
tried him to win with twenty pound more than he had 
to carry. . . . Hullo, John! very glad to see you 

again; growing strong and well, I hope?” 

The old servant looked so shabby that Esther was 
not surprised that Ginger did not shake hands with 
him. She wondered if he would remember her, and 
as the thought passed through her mind he extended 
his hand across the bar. 


338 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I ’ope I may have the honour of drinking a glass of 
wine with you, sir,” said William. Ginger raised no 
objection, and William told Esther to go down-stairs 
and fetch up a bottle of champagne. 

Ketley, Journeyman, Stack, and the others listened 
eagerly. To meet the celebrated gentleman -rider was 
a great event in their lives. But the conversation was 
confined to the Barfield horses ; it was carried on by 
the merest allusion, and Journeyman wearied of it. 
He said he must be getting home; the others nodded, 
finished their glasses, and bade William good-night as 
they left. A couple of flower-girls with loose hair, 
shawls, and trays of flowers, suggestive of street- 
faring, came in and ordered four ale. The)’’ spoke to 
the vagrant, who collected his match-boxes in prepara- 
tion for a last search for charity. William cut the 
wires of the champagne, and at that moment Charles, 
who had gone through with the ladder to turn out the 
street lamp, returned with a light overcoat on his arm 
which he said a cove outside wanted to sell him for 
two-and-six. ’ ’ 

“Do you know him?” said William. 

“Yes, I knowed him. I had to put him out the 
other night — Bill Evans, the cove that wears the 
blue Melton.” 

The swing doors were opened, and a man between 
thirty and forty came in. He was about the medium 
height; a dark olive skin, black curly hair, pictur- 
esque and disreputable, like a bird of prey in his blue 
Melton jacket and billycock hat. 

“You’d better ’ave the coat, ” he said; “you won’t 
better it;” and coming into the bar he plunked down 
a penny as if it were a sovereign. “Glass of porter; 


ESTHER WATERS 


339 


nice warm weather, good for the ’arvest. Just come 
up from the country — a bit dusty, ain’t I?” 

“Ain’t you the chap,” said William, “what laid 
Mr. Ketley six ’alf-crowns to one against Cross 
Roads?” 

Charles nodded, and William continued — 

“I like your cheek coming into my bar.” 

“No harm done, gov’nor; no one was about; 
wouldn’t ’ave done it if they had.” 

“That’ll do,” said William. “ . . . No, he don’t 

want the coat. We likes to know where our things 
comes from. ’ ’ 

Bill Evans finished his glass. ‘ ‘ Good-night, guv ’nor ; 
no ill-feeling. ” 

The flower-girls laughed ; one offered him a flower. 
“Take it for love,” she said. He was kind enough to 
do so, and the three went out together. 

“I don’t like the looks of that chap,” said William, 
and he let go the champagne cork. “ Yer health, sir. ” 
They raised their glasses, and the conversation turned 
on next week’s racing. 

“I dun know about next week’s events,” said old 
John, “but I’ve heard of something for the Leger — an 
outsider will win. ’ ’ 

“Have you backed it?” 

“I would if I had the money, but things have been 
going very unlucky with me lately. But I’d advise 
you, sir, to have a trifle on. It’s the best tip I ’ave 
had in my life. ’ ’ 

“Really!” said Ginger, beginning to feel interested, 
“so I will, and so shall you. I’m damned if you 
shan’t have your bit on. Come, what is it? William 
will lay the odds. What is it?” 


340 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Briar Rose, the White House stable, sir.” 

“Why, I thought that ” 

“No such thing, sir; Briar Rose’s the one.” 

Ginger took up the paper. “Twenty-five to one 
Briar Rose taken.” 

“You see, sir, it was taken.” 

“Will you lay the price, William — twenty-five half- 
sovereigns to one?” 

“Yes, I’ll lay it.” 

Ginger took a half-sovereign from his pocket and 
handed it to the bookmaker. 

“I never take money over this bar. You’re good 
for a thin ’un, sir,” William said, with a smile, as he 
handed back the money. 

“But I don’t know when I shall see you again,” 
said Ginger. “It will be very inconvenient. There’s 
no one in the bar. ’ ’ 

“None but the match-seller and them two flower- 
girls. I suppose they don’t matter?” 

Happiness flickered up through the old greyness of 
the face. Henceforth something to live for. Each 
morning bringing news of the horse, and the hours of 
the afternoon passing pleasantly, full of thoughts of 
the evening paper and the gossip of the bar. A bet on 
a race brings hope into lives which otherwise would 
be hopeless. 


XXXI. 


Never had a Derby excited greater interest. Four 
hot favourites, between which the public seemed 
unable to choose. Two to one taken and offered 
against Fly-leaf, winner of the Two Thousand ; four to 
one taken and offered against Signet-ring, who, half- 
trained, had run Fly-leaf to a head. Four to one 
against Necklace, the winner of the Middle Park Plate 
and the One Thousand. Seven to one against Dew- 
berry, the brilliant winner of the Newmarket stakes. 
The chances of these horses were argued every night 
at the “King’s Head.” Ketley’s wife used to wear a 
string of yellow beads when she was a girl, but she 
wasn’t certain what had become of them. Ketley did 
not wear a signet-ring, and had never known anyone 
who did. Dewberries grew on the river banks, but 
they were not ripe yet. Fly-leaf, he could not make 
much of that — not being much of a reader. So what 
with one thing and another Ketley didn’t believe much 
in this ’ere Derby. Journeyman caustically remarked 
that, omens or no omens, one horse was bound to win. 
Why didn’t Herbert look for an omen among the out- 
siders? Old John’s experiences led him to think that 
the race lay between Fly-leaf and Signet-ring. He 
had a great faith in blood, and Signet-ring came of a 
more staying stock than did Fly-leaf. “When they 
begin to climb out of the dip Fly-leaf will have had 
about enough of it.’’ Stack nodded approval. He 
had five bob on Dewberry. He didn’t know much 

341 


342 


ESTHER WATERS 


about his staying powers, but all the stable is on him ; 
“and when I know the stable-money is right I says, 
‘That’s good enough forme!’ ’’ 

Ginger, who came in occasionally, was very sweet on 
Necklace, whom he declared to be the finest mare of 
the century. He was listened to with awed attention, 
and there was a death-like silence in the bar when he 
described how she had won the One Thousand. He 
wouldn’t -have ridden her quite that way himself; but 
then what was a steeplechase rider’s opinion worth 
regarding a flat race? The company demurred, and 
old John alluded to Ginger’s magnificent riding when 
he won the Liverpool on Foxcover, steadying the horse 
about sixty yards from home, and bringing him up with 
a rush in the last dozen strides, nailing Jim Sutton, 
who had persevered all the way, on the very post by a 
head. Bill Evans, who happened to look in that even- 
ing, said that he would not be surprised to see all the 
four favourites bowled out by an outsider. He had 
heard something that was good enough for him. He 
didn’t suppose the guv ’nor would take him on the 
nod, but he had a nice watch which ought to be good 
for three ten. 

“Turn it up, old mate,’’ said William. 

“All right, guv’nor, I never presses my goods on 
them that don’t want ’em. If there’s any other gen- 
tleman who would like to look at this ’ere timepiece, 
or a pair of sleeve links, they’re in for fifteen shillings. 
Here’s the ticket. I’m a bit short of money, and have 
a fancy for a certain outsider. I’d like to have my bit 
on, and I’ll dispose of the ticket for — what do you say 
to a thin ’un, Mr. Ketley?’’ 

“Did you ’ear me speak just now?’’ William 


ESTHER WATERS 


343 


answered angrily, “or shall I have to get over the 
counter?” 

“I suppose, Mrs. Latch, you have seen a great deal 
of racing?” said Ginger. 

“No, sir. I’ve heard a great deal about racing, but 
I never saw a race run.” 

“How’s that, shouldn’t you care?” 

“You see, my husband has his betting to attend to, 
and there’s the house to look after. ” 

“I never thought of it before,” said William. 
“You’ve never seen a race run, no more you haven’t. 
Would you care to come and see the Derby run next 
week, Esther?” 

“I think I should.” 

At that moment the policeman stopped and looked 
in. All eyes went up to the clock, and Esther said, 
“We shall lose our licence if ” 

“If we don’t get out,” said Ginger. 

William apologised. 

“The law is the law, sir, for rich and poor alike; 
should be sorry to hurry you, sir, but in these days 
very little will lose a man his house. Now, Herbert, 
finish your drink. No, Walter, can’t serve any more 
liquor to-night. . . . Charles, close the private 

bar, let no one else in. . . . Now, gentlemen, 

gentlemen. ” 

Old John lit his pipe and led the way. William 
held the door for them. A few minutes after the 
house was closed. 

A locking of drawers, fastening of doors, putting 
away glasses, making things generally tidy, an hour’s 
work before bed-time, and then they lighted their 
candle in the little parlour and went upstairs. 


344 


ESTHER WATERS 


William flung off his coat. “I’m dead beat,” he 

said, “and all this to lose ” He didn’t finish the 

sentence. Esther said — 

“You’ve a heavy book on the Derby. Perhaps an 
outsider’ll win.” 

“I ’ope so. . . . But if you’d care to see the 

race, I think it can be managed. I shall be busy, but 
Journeyman or Ketley will look after you.’’ 

“I don’t know that I should care to walk about all 
day with Journeyman, nor Ketley neither.’’ 

They were both tired, and with an occasional 
remark they undressed and got into bed. Esther laid 
her head on the pillow and closed her eyes. . . . 

“I wonder if there’s any one going who you’d care 
for?” 

“I don’t care a bit about it. Bill.” The conversa- 
tion paused. At the end of a long silence William 
said — 

“It do seem strange that you who has been mixed up 
in it so much should never have seen a race. ’ ’ Esther 
didn’t answer. She was falling asleep, and William’s 
voice was beginning to sound vague in her ears. Sud- 
denly she felt him give her a great shove. “Wake 
up, old girl, I’ve got it. Why not ask your old pal, 
Sarah Tucker, to go with us? I heard John say she’s 
out of situation. It’ll be a nice treat for her. ’ ’ 

“Ah. ... I should like to see Sarah again.” 

“You’re half asleep.” 

“No, I’m not; you said we might ask Sarah to come 
to the Derby with us. ’ ’ 

William regretted that he had not a nice trap to 
drive them down. To hire one would run into a deal 
of money, and he was afraid it might make him late on 


ESTHER WATERS 


345 


the course. Besides, the road wasn’t what it used to 
be ; every one goes by train now. They dropped off 
to sleep talking of how they should get Sarah’s 
address. 

Three or four days passed, and one morning William 
jumped out of bed and said — 

“I think it will be a fine day, Esther.” He took out 
his best suit of clothes, and selected a handsome silk 
scarf for the occasion. Esther was a heavy sleeper, 
and she lay close to the wall, curled up. Taking no 
notice of her, William went on dressing; then he said — 

‘‘Now then, Esther, get up. Teddy will be here 
presently to pack up my clothes. ’ ’ 

‘‘Is it time to get up?” 

“Yes, I should think it was. For God’s sake, get 
up.” 

She had a new dress for the Derby. It had been 
bought in Tottenham Court Road, and had only come 
home last night. A real summer dress ! A lilac pat- 
tern on a white ground, the sleeves and throat and the 
white hat tastefully trimmed with lilac and white lace ; 
a nice sunshade to match. At that moment a knock 
came at the door. 

“All right, Teddy, wait a moment, my wife’s not 
dressed yet. Do make haste, Esther.” 

Esther stepped into the skirt so as not to ruffle her 
hair, and she was buttoning the bodice when little Mr. 
Blamy entered. 

“Sorry to disturb you, ma’am, but there isn’t no 
time to lose if the governor don’t want to lose his place 
on the ’ill.” 

“Now then, Teddy, make haste, get the toggery out; 
don’t stand there talking.” 


346 


ESTHER WATERS 


The little man spread the Gladstone bag upon the 
floor and took a suit of checks from the chest of 
drawers, each square of black and white nearly as 
large as a sixpence. 

“You’ll wear the green tie, sir?’’ William nodded. 
The green tie was a yard of flowing sea-green silk. 
“I’ve got you a bunch of yellow flowers, sir; will you 
wear them now, or shall I put them in the bag?’’ 

William glanced at the bouquet. “They look a bit 
loud,’’ he said; “I’ll wait till we get on the course; 
put them in the bag. ’ ’ 

The card to be worn in the white hat — “William 
Latch, London,’’ in gold letters on a green ground — 
was laid on top. The boots with soles three inches 
high went into the box on which William stood while 
he halloaed his prices to the crowd. Then there were 
the two poles which supported a strip of white linen, 
on which was written in gold letters, “William Latch, 
‘The King’s Head,’ London. Fair prices, prompt pay- 
ment.’’ 

It was a grey day, with shafts of sunlight coming 
through, and as the cab passed over Waterloo Bridge, 
London, various embankments and St. Pauls on one 
side, wharves and warehouses on the other, appeared 
in grey curves and straight silhouettes. The pave- 
ments were lined with young men — here and there a 
girl’s dress was a spot of colour in the grey morn- 
ing. At the station they met Journeyman and old 
John, but Sarah was nowhere to be found. William 
said — 

“We shall be late; we shall have to go without her.” 

Esther’s face clouded. “We can’t go without her; 
don’t be so impatient.’’ At that moment a white 


ESTHER WATERS 


347 


muslin was seen in the distance, and Esther said, “I 
think that that’s Sarah.” 

“You can chatter in the train — you’ll have a whole 
hour to talk about each other’s dress; get in, get in,” 
and William pressed them into a third-class carriage. 
They had not seen each other for so long a while, and 
there was so much to say that they did not know where 
to begin. Sarah was the first to speak. 

“It was kind of you to think of me. So you’ve 
married, and to him after all!” she added, lowering 
her voice. 

Esther laughed. “It do seem strange, don’t it?” 

“You’ll tell me all about it,” she said. “I wonder 
we didn’t run across one another before.” 

They rolled out of the grey station into the light, 
and the plate-glass drew the rays together till they 
burnt the face and hands. They sped alongside of the 
upper windows nearly on a level with the red and yel- 
low chimney-pots ; they passed open spaces filled with 
cranes, old iron, and stacks of railway sleepers, pic- 
torial advertisements, sky signs, great gasometers 
rising round and black in their iron cages over-topping 
or nearly the slender spires. A train steamed along a 
hundred-arched viaduct; and along a black embank- 
ment the other trains rushed by in a whirl of wheels, 
bringing thousands of clerks up from the suburbs to 
their city toil. 

The excursion jogged on, stopping for long inter- 
vals before strips of sordid garden where shirts and 
pink petticoats were blowing. Little streets ascended 
the hillsides; no more trains, ’buses, too, had disap- 
peared, and afoot the folk hurried along the lonely 
pavements of their suburbs. At Clapham Junction 


348 


ESTHER WATERS 


betting men had crowded the platform ; they all wore 
grey overcoats with race-glasses slung over their 
shoulders. And the train still rolled through the 
brick wilderness which old John said was all country 
forty years ago. 

The men puffed at their pipes, and old John’s anec- 
dotes about the days when he and the Gaffer, in com- 
pany with all the great racing men of the day, used to 
drive down by road, were listened to with admiration. 
Esther had finished telling the circumstances in which 
she had met Margaret; and Sarah questioned her 
about William and how her marriage had come about. 
The train had stopped outside of a little station, and 
the blue sky, with its light wispy clouds, became a 
topic of conversation. Old John did not like the look 
of those clouds, and the women glanced at the water- 
proofs which they carried on their arms. 

They passed bits of common with cows and a stray 
horse, also a little rural cemetery; but London sud- 
denly began again parish after parish, the same blue 
roofs, the same tenement houses. The train had 
passed the first cedar and the first tennis lawn. And 
knowing it to be a Derby excursion the players paused 
in their play and looked up. Again the line was 
blocked; the train stopped again and again. But it 
had left London behind, and the last stoppage was in 
front of a beautiful June landscape. A thick meadow 
with a square weather-beaten church showing between 
the spreading trees; miles of green com, with birds 
flying in the bright air, and lazy clouds going out, 
making way for the endless blue of a long summer’s 
day. 


XXXII. 


It had been arranged that William should don his 
betting toggery at the “Spread Eagle Inn.” It stood 
at the cross-roads, only a little way from the station — a 
square house with a pillared porch. Even at this 
early hour the London pilgrimage was filing by. 
Horses were drinking in the trough ; their drivers were 
drinking in the bar; girls in light dresses shared 
glasses of beer with young men. But the greater num- 
ber of vehicles passed without stopping, anxious to get 
on the course. They went round the turn in long 
procession, a policeman on a strong horse occupied 
the middle of the road. The waggonettes and coaches 
had red-coated guards, and the air was rent with the 
tooting of the long brass horns. Every kind of dingy 
trap went by, sometimes drawn by two, sometimes by 
only one horse — shays half a century old jingled 
along; there were even donkey-carts. Esther and 
Sarah were astonished at the number of costers, but 
old John told them that that was nothing to what it 
was fifty years ago. The year that Andover won the 
block began seven or eight miles from Epsom. They 
were often half-an-hour without moving. Such 
chaffing and laughing, the coster cracked his joke with 
the duke, but all that was done away with now. 

“Gracious!” said Esther, when William appeared in 
his betting toggery. “I shouldn't have known you.” 

He did seem very wonderful in his checks, green 
349 


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ESTHER WATERS 


necktie, yellow flowers, and white hat with its gold 
inscription, “Mr. William Latch, London.” 

“It’s all right,” he said; “you never saw me before 
in these togs— flne, ain’t they? But we’re very late. 
Mr. North has offered to run me up to the course, but 
he’s only two places. Teddy and me must be getting 
along — but you needn’t hurry. The races won’t begin 
for hours yet. It’s only about a mile — a nice walk. 
These gentlemen will look after you. You know 
where to And me,” he said, turning to John and 
Walter. “You’ll look after my wife and Miss Tucker, 
won’t you?” and forthwith he and Teddy jumped into 
a waggonette and drove away. 

“Well, that’s what I calls cheek,” said Sarah. 
“Going off by himself in a waggonette and leaving us 
to foot it. ’ ’ 

“He must look after his place on the ’ill or else he’ll 
do no betting,” said Journeyman. “We’ve plenty of 
time; racing don’t begin till after one.” 

Recollections of what the road had once been had 
loosened John’s tongue, and he continued his remi- 
niscences of the great days when Sir Thomas Hay- 
ward had laid fifteen thousand to ten thousand three 
times over against the favourite. The third bet had 
been laid at this very spot, but the Duke would not 
accept the third bet, saying that the horse was then 
being backed on the course at evens. So Sir Thomas 
had only lost thirty thousand pounds on the race. 
Journeyman was deeply interested in the anecdote; 
but Sarah looked at the old man with a look that said, 
“Well, if I’m to pass the day with you two I never 
want to go to the Derby again. . . . Come on in 

front,” she whispered to Esther, “and let them talk 


ESTHER WATERS 


351 


about their racing by themselves.” The way led 
through a field ablaze with buttercups; it passed by a 
fish-pond into which three drunkards were gazing. 
‘‘Do you hear what they’re saying about the fish?” 
said Sarah. 

‘‘Don’t pay no attention to them, ” said Esther. “If 
you knew as much about drunkards as I do, you’d 
want no telling to give them a wide berth. . . . 

Isn’t the country lovely? Isn’t the air soft and 
warm?” 

“Oh, I don’t want no more country. I’m that glad 
to get back to town. I wouldn’t take another situa- 
tion out of London if I was offered twenty a year. ’ ’ 

“But look,” said Esther, “at the trees. I’ve hardly 
been in the country since I left Woodview, unless you 
call Dulwich the country — that’s where Jackie was at 
nurse. ’ ’ 

The Cockney pilgrimage passed into a pleasant lane 
overhung with chestnut and laburnum trees. The 
spring had been late, and the white blossoms stood up 
like candles — the yellow dropped like tassels, and the 
streaming sunlight filled the leaves with tints of pale 
gold, and their light shadows patterned the red earth 
of the pathway. But very soon this pleasant pathway 
debouched on a thirsting roadway where tired horses 
harnessed to heavy vehicles toiled up a long hill lead- 
ing to the Downs. The trees intercepted the view, 
and the blown dust whitened the foliage and the way- 
side grass, now in possession of hawker and vagrant. 
The crowd made way for the traps; and the young 
men in blue and grey trousers, and their girls in white 
dresses, turned and watched the four horses bringing 
along the tall drag crowned with London fashion. 


352 


ESTHER WATERS 


There the unwieldy omnibus and the brake filled with 
fat girls in pink dresses and yellow hats, and there the 
spring cart drawn up under a hedge. The cottage 
gates were crowded with folk come to see London 
going to the Derby. Outhouses had been converted 
into refreshment bars, and from these came a smell 
of beer and oranges ; further on there was a lament- 
able harmonium — a blind man singing hymns to its 
accompaniment, and a one-legged man holding his hat 
for alms ; and not far away there stood an earnest-eyed 
woman offering tracts, warning folk of their danger, 
beseeching them to retrace their steps. 

At last the trees ceased and they found themselves 
on the hill-top in a glare of sunlight, on a space of 
worn ground where donkeys were tethered. 

“Is this the Derby?” said Sarah. 

“I hope you’re not disappointed?” 

“No, dear; but where’s all the people — the drags, 
the carriages?” 

“We’ll see them presently,” said old John, and he 
volunteered some explanations. The white building 
was the Grand Stand. The winning-post was a little 
further this way. 

“Where do they start?” said Sarah. 

“Over yonder, where you see that clump. They run 
through the furze right up to Tattenham Comer.” 

A vast crowd swarmed over the opposite hill, and 
beyond the crowd the women saw a piece of open 
downland dotted with bushes, and rising in gentle 
incline to a belt of trees which closed the horizon. 
“Where them trees are, that’s Tattenham Corner:" 
The words seemed to fill old John with enthusiasm, 
and he described how the horses came round this 


ESTHER WATERS 


353 


side of the trees. “They comes right down that ’ere 
’ill — there’s the dip — and they finishes opposite to 
where we is standing. Yonder, by Barnard's Ring.” 

“What, all among the people?” said Sarah. 

“The police will get the people right back up the 
hill.” 

“That’s where we shall find William,” said Esther. 

“I’m getting a bit peckish; ain’t you, dear? He’s 
got the luncheon-basket. . . . but, lor’, what a lot 

of people ! Look at that. ’ ’ 

What had attracted Sarah’s attention was a boy 
walking through the crowd on a pair of stilts fully 
eight feet high. He uttered short warning cries from 
time to time, held out his wide trousers and caught 
pennies in his conical cap. Drags and carriages con- 
tinued to arrive. The sweating horses were unyoked, 
and grooms and helpers rolled the vehicles into posi- 
tion along the rails. Lackeys drew forth cases of wine 
and provisions, and the flutter of table-cloths had 
begun to attract vagrants, itinerant musicians, for- 
tune-tellers, begging children. All these plied their 
trades round the fashion of grey frock-coats and silk 
sun-shades. Along the rails rough fellows lay 
asleep ; the place looked like a vast dormitory ; they 
lay with their hats over their faces, clay pipes sticking 
from under the brims, their brown-red hands upon the 
grey grass. 

Suddenly old John pleaded an appointment; he was 
to meet a friend who would give him the very latest 
news respecting a certain horse; and Esther, Sarah, 
and Journeyman wandered along the course in search 
of William. Along the rails strangely- dressed men 
stood on stools, satchels and race -glasses slung over 


354 


ESTHER WATERS 


their shoulders, great bouquets in their button-holes. 
Each stood between two poles on which was stretched 
a piece of white-coloured linen, on which was inscribed 
their name in large gold letters. Sarah read some of 
these names out: “Jack Hooper, Marylebone. All 
bets paid.” “Tom Wood’s famous boxing rooms, 
Epsom.” “James Webster, Commission Agent, Lon- 
don.” And these betting men bawled the prices from 
the top of their high stools and shook their satchels, 
which were filled with money, to attract custom. 
“What can I do for you to-day, sir?” they shouted 
when they caught the eye of any respectably-dressed 
man. “On the Der-by, on the Der-by, I’ll bet the 
Der-by. ... To win or a place, to win or a place, 
to win or a place — seven to one bar two or three, seven 
to one bar two or three. . . . the old firm, the old 

firm, ’ ’ — like so many challenging cocks, each trying to 
outshrill the other. 

Under the hill-side in a quiet hollow had been 
pitched a large and commodious tent. Journeyman 
mentioned that it was the West London Gospel-tent. 
He thought the parson would have it pretty well all to 
himself, and they stopped before a van filled with 
barrels of Watford ales. A barrel had been taken from 
the van and placed on a small table ; glasses of beer 
were being served to a thirsty crowd ; and all around 
were little canvas shelters, whence men shouted, 
“ ’Commodation, ’commodation. ” 

The sun had risen high, and what clouds remained 
floated away like filaments of white cotton. The 
Grand Stand, dotted like a ceiling with flies, stood out 
distinct and harsh upon a burning plain of blue. The 
light beat fiercely upon the booths, the carriages, the 


ESTHER WATERS 


355 


vehicles, the “rings,* the various stands. The 
country around was lost in the haze and dazzle of the 
sunlight ; but a square mile of downland fluttered with 
flags and canvas, and the great mob swelled, and 
smoked, and drank, shied sticks at Aunt Sally, and 
rode wooden horses. And through this crush of per- 
spiring, shrieking humanity Journeyman, Esther, and 
Sarah sought vainly for William. The form of the 
ground was lost in the multitude and they could only 
tell by the strain in their limbs whether they were 
walking up or down hill. Sarah declared herself to be 
done up, and it was with difficulty that she was per- 
suaded to persevere a little longer. At last Journey- 
man caught sight of the bookmaker’s square shoul- 
ders. 

“Well, so here you are. What can I do for you, 
ladies? Ten to one bar three or four. Will that suit 
you?’’ 

“The luncheon-basket will suit us a deal better,’’ 
said Sarah. 

At that moment a chap came up jingling two half- 
crowns in his hand. “What price the favourite?’’ “Two 
to one,’’ cried William. The two half-crowns were 
dropped into the satchel, and, thus encouraged, Wil- 
liam called out louder than ever, “The old firm, the 
old firm; don’t forget the old firm.’’ There was a 
smile on his lips while he halloaed — a cheery, good- 
natured smile, which made him popular and brought 
him many a customer. 

“On the Der-by, on the Der-by, on the Der-by!” 
All kinds and conditions of men came to make bets 
with him; custom was brisk; he could not join the 
women, who were busy with the lunch-basket, but he 


ESTHER WATERS 


356 

and Teddy would be thankful for the biggest drink 
they could get them. “Ginger beer with a drop of 
whisky in it, that’s about it, Teddy?” 

“Yes, guv’nor, that’ll do for me. . . We’re 

getting pretty full on Dewberry ; might come down a 
point, I think.” 

“All right, Teddy. . . . And if you’d cut us a 

couple each of strong sandwiches — you can manage a 
couple, Teddy?” 

“I think I can, guv’nor.” 

There was a nice piece of beef in the basket, and 
Esther cut several large sandwiches, buttering the 
bread thickly and adding plenty of mustard. When 
she brought them over William bent down and 
whispered — 

“My own duck of a wife, there’s no one like her.” 

Esther blushed and laughed with pleasure, and 
every trace of the resentment for the suffering he had 
occasioned her dropped out of her heart. For the first 
time he was really her husband ; for the first time she 
felt that sense of unity in life which is marriage, and 
knew henceforth he was the one thing that she had to 
live for. 

After luncheon Journeyman, who was making no 
way with Sarah, took his leave, pleading that he had 
some friends to meet in Barnard’s Ring. They were 
glad to be rid of him. Sarah had many a tale to tell ; 
and while listening to the matrimonial engagements 
that had been broken off, Esther shifted her parasol 
from time to time to watch her tall, gaunt husband. 
He shouted the odds, willing to bet against every 
horse, distributed tickets to the various folk that 
crowded round him, each with his preference, his 


ESTHER WATERS 


357 


prejudice, his belief in omens, in tips, or in the talent 
and luck of a favourite jockey. Sarah continued her 
cursive chatter regarding the places she had served in. 
She felt inclined for a snooze, but was afraid it would 
not look well. While hesitating she ceased speaking, 
and both women fell asleep under the shade of their 
parasols. It was the shallow, glassy sleep of the open 
air, through which they divined easily the great blur 
that was the race-course. 

They could hear William’s voice, and they heard a 
bell ring and shouts of “Here they come!’’ Then a 
lull came, and their perceptions grew a little denser, 
and when they awoke the sky was the same burning 
blue, and the multitude moved to and fro like puppets. 

Sarah was in no better temper after than before her 
sleep. “It’s all very well for you,’’ she said. “You 
have your husband to look after. . . . I’ll never 

come to the Derby again without a young man. . . 

I’m tired of sitting here, the grass is roasting. Come 
for a walk.” 

They were two nice-looking English women of the 
lower classes, prettily dressed in light gowns with 
cheap sunshades in their cotton -gloved hands. Sarah 
looked at every young man with regretful eyes. In 
such moods acquaintanceships are made ; and she did 
not allow Esther to shake off Bill Evans, who, just as 
if he had never been turned out of the bar of the 
“King’s Head,’’ came up with his familiar, “Good 
morning, ma’am — lovely weather for the races.” 
Sarah’s sidelong glances at the blue Melton jacket and 
the billycock hat defined her feelings with sufficient 
explicitness, and it was not probable that any warning 
would have been heeded. Soon they were engaged in 


358 


ESTHER WATERS 


animated conversation, and Esther was left to follow 
them if she liked. 

She walked by Sarah’s side, quite ignored, until she 
was accosted by Fred Parsons. They were passing by 
the mission tent, and Fred was calling upon the folk to 
leave the ways of Satan for those of Christ. Bill 
Evans was about to answer some brutal insult; but 
seeing that “the Christian” knew Esther he checked 
himself in time. Esther stopped to speak to Fred, 
and Bill seized the opportunity to slip away with 
Sarah. 

“I didn’t expect to meet you here, Esther.” 

“I’m here with my husband. He said a little 
pleasure ” 

“This is not innocent pleasure, Esther; this is 
drunkenness and debauchery. I hope you’ll never 
come again, unless you come with us,” he said, point- 
ing to some girls dressed as bookmakers, with Salva- 
tion and Perdition written on the satchels hung round 
their shoulders. They sought to persuade the passers- 
by to come into the tent. “We shall be very glad to 
see you,” they said, and they distributed mock racing 
cards on which was inscribed news regarding certain 
imaginary racing. “The Paradise Plate, for all com- 
ers,” “The Salvation Stakes, an Eternity of Happiness 
added. ’ ’ 

Fred repeated his request. “I hope the next time 
you come here it will be with us; you’ll strive to col- 
lect some of Christ’s lost sheep.” 

“And my husband making a book yonder?” 

An av/kward silence intervened, and then he said — 

“Won’t you come in; service is going on?” 

Esther followed him. In the tent there were some 


ESTHER WATERS 


359 


benches, and on a platform a grey-bearded man with 
an anxious face spoke of sinners and redemption. 
Suddenly a harmonium began to play a hymn, and, 
standing side by side, Esther and Fred sang together. 
Prayer was so inherent in her that she felt no sense of 
incongruity, and had she been questioned she would 
have answered that it did not matter where we are, or 
what we are doing, we can always have God in our 
hearts. 

Fred followed her out. 

“You have not forgotten your religion, I hope?” 

“No, I never could forget that.” 

“Then why do I find you in such company? You 
don’t come here like us to find sinners. ” 

“I haven’t forgotten God, but I must do my duty to 
my husband. It would be like setting myself up 
against my husband’s business, and you don’t think I 
ought to do that? A wife that brings discord into the 
family is not a good wife, so I’ve often heard.” 

“You always thought more of your husband than of 
Christ, Esther.” 

“Each one must follow Christ as best he can! It 
would be wrong of me to set myself against my hus- 
band. ’ ’ 

“So he married you?” Fred answered bitterly. 

“Yes. You thought he’d desert me a second time; 
but he’s been the best of husbands.” 

“I place little reliance on those who are not with 
Christ. His love for you is not of the Spirit. Let us 
not speak of him. I loved you very deeply, Esther. I 
would have brought you to Christ. . . . But per- 

haps you’ll come to see us sometimes.” 

“I do not forget Christ. He’s always with me, and 


360 


ESTHER WATERS 


I believe you did care for me. I was sorry to break it 
off, you know I was. It was not my fault. * ’ 

“Esther, it was I who loved you.” 

“You mustn ’ t talk like that. I ’ m a married woman. ’ ’ 

“I mean no harm, Esther. I was only thinking of 
the past.” 

“You must forget all that . . . Good-bye; I’m 

glad to have seen you, and that we said a prayer 
together.” 

Fred didn’t answer, and Esther moved away, won- 
dering where she should find Sarah. 


XXXIII. 


The crowd shouted. She looked where the others 
looked, but saw only the burning^ blue with the white 
stand marked upon it. It was crowded like the deck 
of a sinking vessel, and Esther wondered at the excite- 
ment, the cause of which was hidden from her. She 
wandered to the edge of the crowd until she came to a 
chalk road where horses and mules were tethered. A 
little higher up she entered the crowd again, and came 
suddenly upon a switchback railway. Full of laughing 
and screaming girls, it bumped over a middle hill, and 
then rose slowly till it reached the last summit. It 
was shot back again into the midst of its fictitious 
perils, and this mock voyaging was accomplished to the 
sound of music from a puppet orchestra. Bells and 
drums, a fife and a triangle, cymbals clashed mechan- 
ically, and a little soldier beat the time. Further on, 
under a striped awning, were the wooden horses. 
They were arranged so well that they rocked to and 
fro, imitating as nearly as possible the action of real 
horses. Esther watched the riders. A blue skirt 
looked like a riding habit, and a girl in salmon pink 
leaned back in her saddle just as if she had been taught 
how to ride. A girl in a grey jacket encouraged a 
girl in white who rode a grey horse. But before 
Esther could make out for certain that the man in the 
blue Melton jacket was Bill Evans he had passed out of 
sight, and she had to wait until his horse came round 

361 


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ESTHER WATERS 


the second time. At that moment she caught sight of 
the red poppies in Sarah’s hat. 

The horses began to slacken speed. They went 
slower and slower, then stopped altogether. The 
riders began to dismount and Esther pressed through 
the bystanders, fearing she would not be able to over- 
take her friends. 

“Oh, here you are,” said Sarah. “I thought I 
never should find you again. How hot it is!’’ 

“Were you on in that ride? Let’s have another, all 
three of us. These three horses. ’ ’ 

Round and round they went, their steeds bobbing 
nobly up and down to the sound of fifes, drums and 
cymbals. They passed the winning-post many times ; 
they had to pass it five times, and the horse that 
stopped nearest it won the prize. A long-drawn-out 
murmur, continuous as the sea, swelled up from the 
course — a murmur which at last passed into words: 
“Here they come; blue wins, the favourite’s beat.’’ 
Esther paid little attention to these cries ; she did not 
understand them; they reached her indistinctly and 
soon died away, absorbed in the strident music that 
accompanied the circling horses. These had now 
begun to slacken speed. . . . They went slower and 
slower. Sarah and Bill, who rode side by side, seemed 
like winning, but at the last moment they glided by 
the winning-post. Esther’s steed stopped in time, and 
she was told to choose a china mug from a great heap. 

“You’ve all the luck to-day,’’ said Bill. “Hayfield, 
who was backed all the winter, broke down a month 
ago. ... 2 to I against Fly-leaf, 4 to i against 
Signet-Ring, 4 to i against Dewberry, 10 to i against 
Vanguard, the winner at 50 to i offered. Your hus- 


ESTHER WATERS 363 

band must have won a little fortune. Never was there 
such a day for the bookies. ’ ’ 

Esther said she was very glad, and was undecided 
which mug she should choose. At last she saw one on 
which “Jack” was written in gold letters. They then 
visited the peep-shows, and especially liked St. James’s 
Park with the Horse Guards out on parade ; the Span- 
ish bull-fight did not stir them, and Sarah couldn’t find 
a single young man to her taste in the House of Com- 
mons. Among the performing birds they liked best a 
canary that climbed a ladder. Bill was attracted by 
the American strength-testers, and he gave an exhi- 
bition of his muscle, to Sarah’s very great admiration. 
They all had some shies at cocoa-nuts, and passed by 
J. Bilton’s great bowling saloon without visiting it. 
Once more the air was rent with the cries of “Here 
they come! Here they come 1 ” Even the ’commoda- 
tion men left their canvas shelters and pressed forward 
inquiring which had won. A moment after a score of 
pigeons floated and flew through the blue air and then 
departed in different directions, some , making straight 
for London, others for the blue mysterious evening 
that had risen about the Downs — the sun-baked Downs 
strewn with waste paper and covered by tipsy men and 
women, a screaming and disordered animality. 

“Well, so you’ve come back at last,” said William. 
“The favourite was beaten. I suppose you know that 
a rank outsider won. But what about this gentleman?” 

“Met these ’ere ladies on the ’ill an’ been showing 
them over the course. No offence, I hope, guv’nor?” 

William did not answer, and Bill took leave of 
Sarah in a manner that told Esther that they had 
arranged to meet again. 


3^4 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Where did you pick up that bloke?” 

“He caiue up and spoke to us, and Esther stopped 
to speak to the parson. ’ ' 

“To the parson. What do you mean?” 

The circumstance was explained, and William asked 
them what they thought of the racing. 

“We didn’t see no racing,” said Sarah; “we was on 
the ’ill on the wooden ’orses. Esther’s ’orse won. 
She got a mug; show the mug, Esther.” 

“So you saw no Derby after all?” said William. 

“Saw no racin’!” said his neighbour; “ain’t she 
won the cup?” 

The joke was lost on the women, who only per- 
ceived that they were being laughed at. 

“Come up here, Esther,” said William; “stand on 
my box. The ’orses are just going up the course 
for the preliminary canter. And you, Sarah, take 
Teddy’s place. Teddy, get down, and let the lady up. ’ ’ 

“Yes, guv’nor. Come up ’ere, ma’am.” 

“And is those the ’orses?” said Sarah. “They do 
seem small.” 

The ringmen roared. “Not up to those on the ’ill, 
ma’am,” said one. “Not such beautiful goers,” said 
another. 

There were two or three false starts, and then, look- 
ing through a multitude of hats, Esther saw five or six 
thin greyhound-looking horses. They passed like 
shadows, flitted by; and she was sorry for the poor 
chestnut that trotted in among the crowd. 

This was the last race. Once more the favourite 
had been beaten ; there were no bets to pay, and the 
bookmakers began to prepare for departure. It was 
the poor little clerks who were charged with the lug- 


ESTHER WATERS 


365 


gage. Teddy did not seem as if he would ever reach 
the top of the hill. With Esther and Sarah on either 
arm, William struggled with the crowd. It was hard 
to get through the block of carriages. Everywhere 
horses waited with their harness on, and Sarah was 
afraid of being bitten or kicked. A young aristocrat 
cursed them from the box-seat, and the groom blew a 
blast as the drag rolled away.. It was like the instinct 
of departure which takes a vast herd at a certain 
moment. The great landscape, half country, half 
suburb, glinted beneath the rays of a setting sun ; and 
through the white dust, and the drought of the warm 
roads, the brakes and carriages and every crazy 
vehicle rolled towards London; orange sellers, tract- 
sellers, thieves, vagrants, gipsies, made for their various 
quarters — roadside inns, outhouses, hayricks, hedges, 
or the railway station. Down the long hill the vast 
crowd made its way, humble pedestrians and carriage 
folk, all together, as far as the cross-roads. At the 
“Spread Eagle” there would be stoppage for a parting 
drink, there the bookmakers would change their 
clothes, and there division would happen in the crowd 
— half for the railway station, half for the London 
road. It was there that the traditional sports of the 
road began. A drag, with a band of exquisites armed 
with pea-shooters, peppering on costers who were get- 
ting angry, and threatening to drive over the leaders. 
A brake with two poles erected, and hanging on a 
string quite a line of miniature chamber-pots. A 
horse, with his fore -legs clothed in a pair of lady’s 
drawers. Naturally unconscious of the garment, the 
horse stepped along so absurdly that Esther and Sarah 
thought they’d choke with laughter. 


366 


ESTHER WATERS 


At the station William halloaed to old John, whom 
he caught sight of on the platform. He had backed 
the winner — forty to one about Sultan. It was Ketley 
who had persuaded him to risk half a sovereign on the 
horse. Ketley was at the Derby ; he had met him on 
the course, and Ketley had told him a wonderful story 
about a packet of Turkish Delight. The omen had 
come right this time, and Journeyman took a back 
seat. 

“Say what you like,” said William, “it is damned 
strange; and if anyone did find the way of reading 
them omens there would be an end of us book- 
makers. ” He was only half in earnest, but he 
regretted he had not met Ketley. If he had only had 
a fiver on the horse — 200 to 5 ! 

They met Ketley at Waterloo, and every one 
wanted to hear from his own lips the story of the 
packet of Turkish Delight. So William proposed they 
should all come up to the “King’s Head” for a drink. 
The omnibus took them as far as Piccadilly Circus; 
and there the weight of his satchel tempted William to 
invite them to dinner, regardless of expense. 

“Which is the best dinner here?” he asked the 
commissionaire. 

“The East Room is reckoned the best, sir,” 

The fashion of the shaded candles and the little 
tables, and the beauty of an open evening bodice and 
the black and white elegance of the young men at 
dinner, took the servants by surprise, and made them 
feel that they were out of place in such surroundings. 
Old John looked like picking up a napkin and asking 
at the nearest table if anything was wanted. Ketley 
proposed the grill room, but William, who had had a 


ESTHER WATERS 


367 


glass more than was good for him, declared that he 
didn’t care a damn — that he could buy up the whole 
blooming show. The head-waiter suggested a private 
room ; it was abruptly declined, and William took up 
the menu. “Bisque Soup, what’s that? You ought to 
know, John.’’ John shook his head. “Ris de veau! 

That reminds me of when ’’ William stopped and 

looked round to see if his former wife was in the room. 
Finally, the head-waiter was cautioned to send them 
up the best dinner in the place. Allusion was made 
to the dust and heat. Journeyman suggested a sluice, 
and they inquired their way to the lavatories. Esther 
and Sarah were away longer than the men, and 
stood dismayed at the top of the room till William 
called for them. The other guests seemed a little 
terrified, and the head- waiter, to reassure them, men- 
tioned that it was Derby Day. 

William had ordered champagne, but it had not 
proved to any one’s taste except, perhaps, to Sarah, 
whom it rendered unduly hilarious; nor did the deli- 
cate food afford much satisfaction ; the servants played 
with it, and left it on their plates ; and it was not until 
William ordered up the saddle of mutton and carved it 
himself that the dinner began to take hold of the com- 
pany. Esther and Sarah enjoyed the ices, and the 
men stuck to the cheese, a fine Stilton, which was 
much appreciated. Coffee no one cared for, and the 
little glasses of brandy only served to augment the 
general tipsiness. William hiccupped out an order for 
a bottle of Jamieson eight-year-old; but pipes were not 
allowed, and cigars were voted tedious, so they 
adjourned to the bar, where they were free to get as 
drunk as they pleased. William said, “Now let’s ’ear 


368 


ESTHER WATERS 


the bio the bloody omen that put ye on to Sultan 

— that blood — packet of Turkish Delight. 

‘ ‘ Most extra — most extraordinary thing I ever heard 
in my life, so yer ’ere?” said Ketley, staring at Wil- 
liam and trying to see him distinctly. 

William nodded. “How was it? We want to ’ear 
all about it. Do hold yer tongue, Sarah. I beg par- 
don, Ketley is go — going to tell us about the bloody 
omen. Thought you’d like to he — ar, old girl.” 

Allusion was made to a little girl coming home from 
school, and a piece of paper on the pavement. But 
Ketley could not concentrate his thoughts on the main 
lines of the story, and it was lost in various disserta- 
tions. But the company was none the less pleased 
with it, and willingly declared that bookmaking was 
only a game for mugs. Get on a winner at forty to 
one, and you could make as much in one bet as a poor 
devil of a bookie could in six months, fagging from 
race-course to race-course. They drank, argued, and 
quarrelled, until Esther noticed that Sarah was looking 
very pale. Old John was quite helpless; Journey- 
man, who seemed to know what he was doing, very 
kindly promised to look after him. 

Ketley assured the commissionaire that he was not 
drunk ; and when they got outside Sarah felt obliged 
to step aside; she came back, saying that she felt a 
little better. 

They stood on the pavement’s edge, a little puzzled 
by the brilliancy of the moonlight. And the three 
men who followed out of the bar-room were agreed 
regarding the worthlessness of life. One said, “I 
don’t think much of it; all I live for is beer and 
women.” The phrase caught on William’s ear, and 


ESTHER WATERS 


369 


he said, “Quite right, old mate,” and he held out his 
hand to Bill Evans. “Beer and women, it always 
comes round to that in the end, but we mustn’t let 
them hear us say it. ’ ’ The men shook hands, and Bill 
promised to see Sarah safely home. Esther tried to 
interpose, but William could not be made to under- 
stand, and Sarah and Bill drove away together in a 
hansom. Sarah dozed off immediately on his shoulder, 
and it was difficult to awaken her when the cab stopped 
before a house whose respectability took Bill by sur- 
prise. 


XXXIV. 


Things went well enough as long as her savings 
lasted. When her money was gone Bill returned to 
the race-course in the hope of doing a bit of welshing. 
Soon after he was “wanted” by the police; they 
escaped to Belgium, and it devolved on Sarah to sup- 
port him. The hue and cry over, they came back to 
London. 

She had been sitting up for him ; he had come home 
exasperated and disappointed. A row soon began; 
and she thought that he would strike her. But he 
refrained, for fear, perhaps, of the other lodgers. He 
took her instead by the arm, dragged her down the 
broken staircase, and pushed her into the court. She 
heard the retreating footsteps, and saw a cat slink 
through a grating, and she wished that she too could 
escape from the light into the dark. 

A few belated women still lingered in the Strand, 
and the city stood up like a prison, hard and stark in 
the cold, penetrating light of morning. She sat upon 
a pillar’s base, her eyes turned towards the cabmen’s 
shelter. The horses munched in their nose-bags, and 
the pigeons came down from their roosts. She was 
dressed in an old black dress, her hands lay upon her 
knees, and the pose expressed so perfectly the despair 
and wretchedness in her soul that a young man in 
evening clothes, who had looked sharply at her as he 
passed, turned and came back to her, and he asked her 
370 


ESTHER WATERS 


371 


if he could assist her. She answered, “Thank you, 
sir.” He slipped a shilling into her hand. She was 
too broken-hearted to look up in his face, and he 
walked away wondering what was her story. The 
disordered red hair, the thin, freckled face, were 
expressive, and so too was the movement of her body 
when she got up and walked, not knowing and not car- 
ing where she was going. There was sensation of the 
river in her thoughts; the river drew her, and she 
indistinctly remembered that she would find relief 
there if she chose to accept that relief. The water 
was blue beneath the sunrise, and it seemed to offer to 
end her life’s trouble. She could not go on living. 
She could not bear with her life any longer, and yet 
she knew that she would not drown herself that morn- 
ing. There was not enough will in her to drown her- 
self. She was merely half dead with grief. He had 
turned her out, he had said that he never wanted to 
see her again, but that was because he had been 
unlucky. She ought to have gone to bed and not 
waited up for him; he didn’t know what he was doing; 
so long as he didn’t care for another woman there was 
hope that he might come back to her. The spare trees 
rustled their leaves in the bright dawn air, and she sat 
down on a bench and watched the lamps going out, 
and the river changing from blue to brown. Hours 
passed, and the same thoughts came and went, until 
with sheer weariness of thinking she fell asleep. 

She was awakened by the policeman, and she once 
more continued her walk. The omnibuses had begun ; 
women were coming from market with baskets on 
their arms ; and she wondered if their lovers and hus- 
bands were unfaithful to them, if they would be 


372 


ESTHER WATERS 


received with blows or knocks when they returned. 
Her slightest mistakes had often, it seemed, merited a 
blow ; and God knows she had striven to pick out the 
piece of bacon that she thought he would like, and it 
was not her fault that she couldn’t get any money 
nowhere. Why was he cruel to her? He never would 
find another woman to care for him more than she did. 

. . . Esther had a good husband, Esther had always 
been lucky. Two hours more to wait, and she felt so 
tired, so tired. The milk-women were calling their 
ware — those lusty short-skirted women that bring an 
air of country into the meanest alley. She sat down 
on a doorstep and looked on the empty Haymarket, 
vaguely conscious of the low vice which still lingered 
there though the morning was advancing. She turned 
up Shaftesbury Avenue, and from the beginning of 
Dean Street she watched to see if the shutters were 
yet down. She thought they were, and then saw that 
she was mistaken. There was nothing to do but to 
wait, and on the steps of the Royalty Theatre she 
waited. The sim was shining, and she watched the 
cab horses, until the potboy came through and began 
cleaning the street lamp. She didn’t care to ask him 
any questions; dressed as she was, he might answer 
her rudely. She wanted to see Esther first. Esther 
would pity and help her. So she did not go directly 
to the “King’s Head,” but went up the street a little 
way and came back. The boy’s back was turned to 
her; she peeped through the doors. There was no 
one in the bar, she must go back to the steps of the 
theatre. A number of children were playing there, 
and they did not make way for her to sit down. She 
was too weary to argue the point, and walked up and 


ESTHER WATERS 


373 


down the street. When she looked through the doors 
a second time Esther was in the bar. 

“Is that you, Sarah?” 

“Yes, it is me.” 

“Then come in. . . . How is it that we’ve not seen 
you all this time? What’s the matter?” 

“I’ve been out all night. Bill put me out of doors 
this morning, and I’ve been walking about ever since. ” 

“Bill put you out of doors? I don’t understand.” 

“You know Bill Evans, the man we met on the race- 
course, the day we went to the Derby. ... It began 
there. He took me home after your dinner at the 
‘Criterion.’. . . It has been going on ever since. ” 

“Good Lord! . . . Tell me about it.” 

Leaning against the partition that separated the 
bars, Sarah told how she had left her home and gone 
to live with him. 

“We got on pretty well at first, but the police was 
after him, and we made off to Belgium. There we 
was very hard up, and I had to go out on the streets. ’ ’ 

“He made you do that?” 

“He couldn’t starve, could he?” 

The women looked at each other, and then Sarah 
continued her story. She told how they had come to 
London, penniless. “I think he wants to turn hon- 
est,” she said, “but luck’s been dead against him. . . . 
It’s that difficult for one like him, and he’s been in 
work, but he can’t stick to it; and now I don’t know 
what he’s doing — no good, I fancy. Last night I got 
anxious and couldn’t sleep, so I sat up. It was about 
two when he came in. We had a row and he dragged 
me downstairs and he put me out. He said he never 
wanted to see my ugly face again. I don’t think I’m 


374 


ESTHER WATERS 


as bad as that; I’ve led a hard life, and am not what I 
used to be, but it was he who made me what I am. 
Oh, it don’t matter now, it can’t be helped, it is all 
over with me. I don’t care what becomes of me, only 
I thought I’d like to come and tell you. We was 
always friends.” 

“You mustn’t give way like that, old girl. You 
must keep yer pecker up. You’re dead beat. . . . 
You’ve been walking about all night, no wonder. 
You must come and have some breakfast with us.” 

“I should like a cup of tea, Esther. I never 
touches spirits now. I got over that. ’ ’ 

“Come into the parlour. You’ll be better when 
you’ve had breakfast. We’ll see what we can do for 
you. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Esther, not a word of what I’ve been telling 
you to your husband. I don’t want to get Bill into 
trouble. He’d kill me. Promise me not to mention a 
word of it. I oughtn’t to have told you. I was so 
tired that I didn’t know what I was saying.” 

There was plenty to eat — fried fish, a nice piece of 
steak, tea and coffee. “You seem to live pretty well, ” 
said Sarah, “It must be nice to have a servant of 
one’s own. I suppose you’re doing pretty well here.” 

“Yes, pretty well, if it wasn’t for William’s health.” 

“What’s the matter? Ain’t he well?” 

“He’s been very poorly lately. It’s very trying 
work going about from race-course to race-course, 
standing in the mud and wet all day long. . . . He 
caught a bad cold last winter and was laid up with 
inflammation of the lungs, and I don’t think he ever 
quite got over it.” 

“Don’t he go no more to race meetings?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


375 


“He hasn’t been to a race meeting since the begin- 
ning of the winter. It was one of them nasty steeple- 
chase meetings that laid him up.” 

“Do ’e drink?’’ 

“He’s never drunk, but he takes too much. Spirits 
don’t suit him. He thought he could do what he liked, 
great strong-built fellow that he is, but he’s found out 
his mistake.” 

“He does his betting in London now, I suppose?” 

“Yes,” said Esther, hesitating — “when he has any 
to do. I want him to give it up ; but trade is bad in 
this neighbourhood, leastways, with us, and he don’t 
think we could do without it. ’ ’ 

“It’s very hard to keep it dark; some one’s sure to 
crab it and bring the police down on you.” 

Esther did not answer; the conversation paused, 
and William entered. “Holloa! is that you, Sarah? 
We didn’t know what had become of you all this 
time.” He noticed that she looked like one in trouble, 
and was very poorly dressed. She noticed that his 
cheeks were thinner than they used to be, and that his 
broad chest had sunk, and that there seemed to be 
strangely little space between it and his back. Then 
in brief phrases, interrupting each other frequently, 
the women told the story. William said — 

“I knew he was a bad lot. I never liked to see him 
inside my bar. ’ ’ 

“I thought,” said Esther, “that Sarah might remain 
here for a time. ” 

“I can’t have that fellow coming round my place.” 

“There’s no fear of his coming after me. He don’t 
want to see my ugly face again. Well, let him try to 
find some one who will do for him all I have done.” 


376 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Until she gets a situation,” said Esther. “I think 
that’ll be the best, for you to stop here until you get a 
situation. ’ ' 

“And what about a character?” 

“You needn’t say much about what you’ve been 
doing this last twelve months; if many questions are 
asked, you can say you’ve been stopping with us. But 
you mustn’t see that brute again. If he ever comes 
into that ’ere bar. I’ll give him a piece of my mind. 
I’d give him more than a piece of my mind if I was 
the man I was a twelvemonth ago. ’ ’ William coughed, 
and Esther looked at him anxiously. 


XXXV. 


Lacking a parlour on the ground- floor for the use of 
special customers, William had arranged a room 
upstairs where they could smoke and drink. There 
were tables in front of the windows and chairs against 
the walls, and in the middle of the room a bagatelle 
board. 

When William left off going to race-courses he had 
intended to refrain from taking money across the 
bar and to do all his betting business in this room. 

He thought that it would be safer. But as his cus- 
tomers multiplied he found that he could not ask them 
all upstairs ; it attracted more attention than to take the 
money quietly across the bar. Nevertheless the room 
upstairs had proved a success. A man spent more 
money if he had a room where he could sit quietly 
among his friends than he would seated on a high 
stool in a public bar, jostled and pushed about ; so it 
had come to be considered a sort of club room ; and a 
large part of the neighbourhood came there to read the 
papers, to hear and discuss the news. And specially 
useful it had proved to Journeyman and Stack. 
Neither was now in employment; they were now pro- 
fessional backers; and from daylight to dark they 
wandered from public-house to public-house, from 
tobacconist to barber’s shop, in the search of tips, on 
the quest of stable information regarding the health of 
the horses and their trials. But the room upstairs at 
the “King’s Head’’ was the centre of their operations. 


377 


378 


ESTHER WATERS 


Stack was the indefatigable tipster, Journeyman was 
the scientific student of public form. His memory was 
prodigious, and it enabled him to note an advantage in 
the weights which would escape an ordinary observer. 
He often picked out horses which, if they did not 
actually win, nearly always sto&d at a short price in 
the betting before the race. 

The “King’s Head” was crowded during the dinner- 
hour. Barbers and their assistants, cabmen, scene- 
shifters, if there was an afternoon performance at the 
theatre, servants out of situation and servants escaped 
from their service for an hour, petty shopkeepers, the 
many who grow weary of the scant livelihood that 
work brings them, came there. Eleven o’clock! In 
another hour the bar and the room upstairs would be 
crowded. At present the room was empty, and 
Journeyman had taken advantage of the quiet time to 
do a bit of work at his handicap. All the racing of 
the last three years lay within his mind’s range; he 
recalled at will every trifling selling race ; hardly ever 
was he obliged to refer to the Racing Calendar. 
Wanderer had beaten Brick at ten pounds. Snow 
Queen had beaten Shoemaker at four pounds, and 
Shoemaker had beaten Wanderer at seven pounds. 
The problem was further complicated by the suspicion 
that Brick could get a distance of ground better than 
Snow Queen. Journeyman was undecided. He 
stroked his short brown moustache with his thin, hairy 
hand, and gnawed the end of his pen. In this moment 
of barren reflection Stack came into the room. 

“Still at yer ’an dicap, I see,’’ said Stack. “How 
does it work out?’’ 

“Pretty well,’’ said Journeyman. “But I don’t 


ESTHER WATERS 


379 


think it will be one of my best; there is some pretty 
hard nuts to crack. ’ ’ 

“Which a,re they?” said Stack. Journeyman bright- 
ened up, and he proceeded to lay before Stack’s intel- 
ligence what he termed a “knotty point in collateral 
running.” 

Stack listened with attention, and thus encouraged. 
Journeyman proceeded to point out certain distribu- 
tions of weight which he said seemed to him difficult 
to beat. 

“Anyone what knows the running would say there 
wasn’t a pin to choose between them at the weights. 
If this was the real ’andicap, I’d bet drinks all round 
that fifteen of these twenty would accept. And that’s 
more than anyone will be able to say for Courtney’s 
’andicap. The weights will be out to-morrow; we 
shall see.” 

“What do you say to ’alf a pint,” said Stack, “and 
we’ll go steadily through your ’andicap? You’ve 
nothing to do for the next ’alf-hour. ” 

Journeyman’s dingy face lit up. When the potboy 
appeared in answer to the bell he was told to bring up 
two half -pints, and Journeyman read out the weights. 
Every now and then he stopped to explain his reasons 
for what might seem to be superficial, an unmerited 
severity, or an undue leniency. It was not usual for 
Journeyman to meet with so sympathetic a listener; he 
had often been made to feel that his handicapping 
was unnecessary, and he now noticed, and with much 
pleasure, that Stack’s attention seemed to increase 
rather than to diminish as he approached the end. 
When he had finished Stack said, “I see you’ve given 
six-seven to Ben Jonson. Tell me why you did that?” 


380 


ESTHER WATERS 


“He was a good ’orse once; he’s broken down and 
aged; he can’t be trained, so six-seven seems just the 
kind of weight to throw him in at. You couldn’t give 
him less, however old and broken down he may be. 
He was a good horse when he won the Great Ebor 
Grand Cup. ’ ’ 

“Do you think if they brought him to the post as fit 
and well as he was the day he won the Ebor that 
he’d win?’’ 

“What, fit and well as he was when he won the 
Great Ebor, and with six-seven on his back? He’d 
walk away with it. ’ ’ 

“You don’t think any of the three-year-olds would 
have a chance with him? A Derby winner with seven 
stone on his back might beat him. ’ ’ 

“Yes, but nothing short of that. Even then old 
Ben would make a race of it. A nailing good horse 
once. A little brown horse about fifteen two, as com- 
pact as a leg of Welsh mutton. . . . But there’s no 
use in thinking of him. They’ve been trying for 
years to train him. Didn’t they used to get the flesh 
off him in a Turkish bath? That was Fulton’s notion. 
He used to say that it didn’t matter ’ow you got the 
flesh off so long as you got it off. Every pound of 
flesh off the lungs is so much wind, he used to say. 
But the Turkish bath trained horses came to the post 
limp as old rags. If a ’orse ’asn’t the legs you can’t 
train him. Every pound of flesh yer take off must put 
a pound ’o ’ealth on. They’ll do no good with old 
Ben, unless they’ve found out a way of growing on 
him a pair of new forelegs. The old ones won’t do 
for my money. ’ ’ 

“But do you think that Courtney will take the same 


ESTHER WATERS 381 

view of his capabilities as you do — do you think he’ll 
let him off as easily as you have?” 

‘‘He can’t give him much more. . . . The ’orse is 
bound to get in at seven stone, rather under than 
over. ’ ’ 

“I’m glad to 'ear yer say so, for I know you’ve a 
headpiece, and 'as all the running in there.” Stack 
tapped his forehead. “Now, I’d like to ask you if 
there’s any three-year-olds that would be likely to 
interfere with him?” 

“Derby and Leger winners will get from eight 
stone to eight stone ten, and three-year -olds ain’t no 
good over the Cesare witch course with more than eight 
on their backs. ’ ’ 

The conversation paused. Surprised at Stack’s 
silence, Journeyman said — 

“Is there anything up? Have you heard anything 
particular about old Ben?” 

Stack bent forward. “Yes, I’ve heard something, 
and I’m making inquiries.” 

“How did you hear it?” 

Stack drew his chair a little closer. “I’ve been up 
at Chalk Farm, the ‘Yarborough Arms’; you know, 
where the ’buses stop. Bob Barrett does a deal of 
business up there. He pays the landlord’s rent for 
the use of the bar — Wednesdays, Fridays, and Satur- 
days is his days. Charley Grove bets there Mondays, 
Tuesdays, and Thursdays, but it is Bob that does the 
biggest part of the business. They say he’s taken as 
much as twenty pounds in a morning. You know 
Bob, a great big man, eighteen stun if he’s an ounce. 
He’s a warm ’un, can put it on thick.” 

“I know him; he do tell fine stories about the girls; 


382 


ESTHER WATERS 


he was the pick of the neighbourhood, wears a low 
hat, no higher than that, with a big brim. I know 
him. I’ve heard that he ’as moved up that way. 
Used at one time to keep a tobacconist’s shop in Great 
Portland Street.” 

“That’s him,” said Stack. “I thought you’d heard 
of him. ’ ’ 

“There ain’t many about that I’ve not heard of. 
Not that I likes the man much. There was a girl I 
knew — she wouldn’t hear his name mentioned. But he 
lays fair prices, and does, I believe, a big trade.” 

“ ’As a nice ’ome at Brixton, keeps a trap; his wife 
as pretty a woman as you could wish to lay eyes on. 
I’ve seen her with him at Kemp ton. ” 

“You was up there this morning?” 

“Yes.” 

“It wasn’t Bob Barrett that gave you the tip?” 

“Not likely.” The men laughed, and then Stack 
said — 

“You know Bill Evans? You’ve seen him here, 
always wore a blue Melton jacket and billycock hat ; a 
dark, stout, good-looking fellow ; generally had some- 
thing to sell, or pawn-tickets that he would part with 
for a trifle.” 

“Yes, I know the fellow. We met him down at 
Epsom one Derby Day. Sarah Tucker, a friend of 
the missis, was dead gone on him. ’ ’ 

“Yes, she went to live with him. There was a row, 
and now, I believe, they’re together again; they was 
seen out walking. They’re friends, anyhow. Bill 
has been away all the summer, tramping. A bad lot, 
but one of them sort often hears of a good thing.” 

“So it was from Bill Evans that you heard it. ” 


ESTHER WATERS 


383 


“Yes, it was from Bill. He has just come up from 
Eastbourne, where he ’as been about on the Downs a 
great deal. I don’t know if it was the horses he was 
after, but in the course of his proceedings he heard 
from a shepherd that Ben Jonson was doing seven 
hours’ walking exercise a day. This seemed to have 
fetched Bill a bit. Seven hours a day walking exercise 
do seem a bit odd, and being at the same time after 
one of the servants in the training stable — as pretty a 
bit of goods as he ever set eyes on, so Bill says — he 
thought he’d make an inquiry or two about all this 
walking exercise. One of the lads in the stable is 
after the girl, too, so Bill found out very soon all he 
wanted to know. As you says, the ’orse is dicky on 
’is forelegs, that is the reason of all the walking exer- 
cise. ’ ’ 

“And they thinks they can bring him fit to the post 
and win the Cesarewitch with him by walking him all 
day?” 

“I don’t say they don’t gallop him at all; they do 
gallop him, but not as much as if his legs was all right. ” 

“That won’t do. I don’t believe in a ’orse winning 
the Cesarewitch that ain’t got four sound legs, and old 
Ben ain’t got more than two.” 

“He’s had a long rest, and they say he is sounder 
than ever he was since he won the Great Ebor. They 
don’t say he’d stand no galloping, but they don’t want 
to gallop him more than’s absolutely necessary on 
account of the suspensory ligament; it ain’t the back 
sinew, but the suspensory ligament. Their theory is 
this, that it don’t so much matter about bringing him 
quite fit to the post, for he’s sure to stay the course; 
he’d do that three times over. What they say is this. 


384 


ESTHER WATERS 


that if he gets in with seven stone, and we brings him 
well and three parts trained, their ain’t no ’orse in 
England that can stand up before him. They’ve got 
another in the race. Laurel Leaf, to make the running 
for him; it can’t be too strong for old Ben. You say to 
yourself that he may get let off with six-seven. If he 
do there’ll be tons of money on him. He’ll be backed 
at the post at five to one. Before the weights come 
out they’ll lay a hundred to one on the field in any of 
the big clubs. I wouldn’t mind putting a quid on him 
if you’ll join me.” 

“Better wait until the weights come out,” said 
Journeyman, “for if it happened to come to Courtney’s 
ears that old Ben could be trained he’d clap seven-ten 
on him without a moment’s hesitation. ” 

“You think so?” said Stack. 

“I do,” said Journeyman. 

“But you agree with me that if he got let off with 
anything less than seven stone, and be brought fit, or 
thereabouts, to the post, that the race is a moral cer- 
tainty for him?” 

“A thousand to a brass farthing.” 

“Mind, not a word.” 

“Is it likely?” 

The conversation paused a moment, and Journey- 
man said, “You’ve not seen my ’andicap for the Cam- 
bridgeshire. I wonder what you’d think of that?” 
Stack said he would be glad to see it another time, and 
suggested that they go downstairs. 

“I’m afraid the police is in,” said Stack, when he 
opened the door. 

“Then we’d better stop where we are; I don’t want 
to be took to the station. ’ ’ 


ESTHER WATERS 385 

They listened for some moments, holding the door 
ajar. 

“It ain’t the police,” said Stack, “but a row about 
some bet. Latch had better be careful. ’ ’ 

The cause of the uproar was a tall young English 
workman, whose beard was pale gold, and whose teeth 
were white. He wore a rough handkerchief tied 
round his handsome throat. His eyes were glassy with 
drink, and his comrades strove to quieten him. 

“Leave me alone,” he exclaimed; “the bet was ten 
half-crowns to one. I won’t stand being welshed.” 

William’s face flushed up. “Welshed!” he said. 
“No one speaks in this bar of welshing.” He would 
have sprung over the counter, but Esther held him 
back. 

“I know what I’m talking about; you let me alone,” 
said the young workman, and he struggled out of the 
hands of his friends. “The bet was ten half-crowns 
to one. ’ ’ 

“Don’t mind what he says, guv ’nor.” 

“Don’t mind what I says!” For a moment it 
seemed as if the friends were about to come to blows, 
but the young man’s perceptions suddenly clouded, 
and he said, “In this blo-ody bar last Monday . . . 
horse backed in Tatter sail’s at twelve to one taken and 
offered. ’ ’ 

“He don’t know what he’s talking about;, but no 
one must accuse me of welshing in this ’ere bar.” 

“No offence, guv’nor; mistakes will occur.” 

William could not help laughing, and he sent Teddy 
upstairs for Monday’s paper. He pointed out that 
eight to one was being asked for about the horse on 
Monday afternoon at Tattersall’s. The stage door- 


386 


ESTHER WATERS 


keeper and a scene-shifter had just come over from the 
theatre, and had managed to force their way into the 
jug and bottle entrance. Esther and Charles had been 
selling beer and spirits as fast as they could draw it, 
but the disputed bet had caused the company to forget 
their glasses. 

“Just one more drink, ’ ’ said the young man. ‘ ‘ Take 
the ten half-crowns out in drinks, guv ’nor, that’s good 
enough. What do you say, guv’nor?’’ 

“What, ten half-crowns?’’ William answered angrily. 
“Haven’t I shown you that the ’orse was backed at 
Tattersall’s the day you made the bet at eight to one?’’ 

“Ten to one, guv’nor.’’ 

“I’ve not time to go on talking. . . . You’re inter- 
fering with my business. You must get out of my 
bar.’’ 

“Who’ll put me out?’’ 

“Charles, go and fetch a policeman.’’ 

At the word “policeman’’ the young man seemed to 
recover his wits somewhat, and he answered, “You’ll 
bring in no bloody policeman. Fetch a policeman! 
and what about your blooming betting — what will 
become of it?’’ William looked round to see if there 
was any in the bar whom he could not trust. He knew 
everyone present, and believed he could trust them all. 
There was but one thing to do, and that was to put on 
a bold face and trust to luck. “Now out you go,’’ he 
said, springing over the counter, “and never you set 
your face inside my bar again. ’ ’ Charles followed the 
guv’nor over the counter like lightning, and the 
drunkard was forced into the street. “He don’t mean 
no ’arm,’’ said one of the friends; “he’ll come round 
to-morrow and apologise for what he’s said.’’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


387 


“I don’t want his apology,” said William. “No one 
shall call me a welsher in my bar. . . . Take your 
friend away, and never let me see him in my bar 
again. ’ ’ 

Suddenly William turned very pale. He was seized 
with a fit of coughing, and this great strong man 
leaned over the counter very weak indeed. Esther led 
him into the parlour, leaving Charles to attend to the 
customers. His hand trembled like a leaf, and she sat 
by his side holding it. Mr. Blamy came in to ask if he 
should lay one of the young gentlemen from the tutor’s 
thirty shillings to ten against the favourite. Esther 
said that William could attend to no more customers 
that day. Mr. Blamy returned ten minutes after to 
say that ther.e was quite a number of people in the bar ; 
should he refuse to take their money? 

“Do you know them all?” said William. 

“I think so, guv ’nor.” 

“Be careful to bet with no one you don’t know; but 
I’m so bad I can hardly speak.” 

“Much better send them away,” said Esther. 

“Then they’ll go somewhere else.” 

“It won’t matter; they’ll come back to where 
they’re sure of their money.” 

“I’m not so sure of that,” William answered, feebly. 
“I think it will be all right, Teddy; you’ll be very 
careful.” 

“Yes, guv’nor. I’ll keep down the price.” 


XXXVI. 


One afternoon Fred Parsons came into the bar of the 
“King's Head. “ He wore the cap and jersey of the 
Salvation Army ; he was now Captain Parsons. The 
bars were empty. It was a time when business was 
slackest. The morning’s betting was over; the crowd 
had dispersed, and would not collect again until the 
Evening Standard had come in. William had gone for 
a walk. Esther and the potboy were alone in the 
house. The potman was at work in the backyard, 
Esther was sewing in the parlour. Hearing steps, she 
went into the bar. Fred looked at her abashed, he 
was a little perplexed. He said — 

“Is your husband in? I should like to speak to 
him. ’ ’ 

“No, my husband is out. I don’t expect him back 
for an hour or so. Can I give him any message?’’ 

She was on the point of asking him how he was. 
But there was something so harsh and formal in his 
tone and manner that she refrained. But the idea in 
her mind must have expressed itself in her face, for 
suddenly his manner softened. He drew a deep 
breath, and passed his hand across his forehead. 
Then, putting aside the involuntary thought, he said — 
“Perhaps it will come through you as well as any 
other way. I had intended to speak to him, but I can 
explain the matter better to you. . . . It is about the 
betting that is being carried on here. We mean to put 
a stop to it. That’s what I came to tell him. It must 

388 


ESTHER WATERS 389 

be put a stop to. No right-minded person — it cannot 
be allowed to go on.” 

Esther said nothing; not a change of expression 
came upon her grave face. Fred was agitated. The 
words stuck in his throat, and his hands were restless. 
Esther raised her calm eyes, and looked at him. His 
eyes were pale, restless eyes. 

“I’ve come to warn you,” he said, “that the law will 
be set in motion. ... It is very painful for me, but 
something must be done. The whole neighbourhood 
is devoured by it.” Esther did not answer, and he 
said, “Why don’t you answer, Esther?” 

“What is there for me to answer? You tell me that 
you are going to get up a prosecution against us. I 
can’t prevent you. I’ll tell my husband what you 
say.” 

“This is a very serious matter, Esther.” He had 
come into command of his voice, and he spoke with 
earnest determination. “If we get a conviction 
against you for keeping a betting-house, you will not 
only be heavily fined, but you will also lose your 
licence. All we ask is that the betting shall cease. 
No,” he said, interrupting, “don’t deny anything; it 
is quite useless, we know everything. The whole 
neighbourhood is demoralized by this betting; nothing 
is thought of but tips; the day’s racing — that is all they 
think about — the evening papers, and the latest infor- 
mation. You do not know what harm you’re doing. 
Every day we hear of some new misfortune — a home 
broken up, the mother in the workhouse, the daughter 
on the streets, the father in prison, and all on account 
of this betting. Oh, Esther, it is horrible ; think of the 
harm you’re doing.” 


390 


ESTHER WATERS 


Fred Parsons’ high, round forehead, his weak eyes, 
his whole face, was expressive of fear and hatred of 
the evil which a falsetto voice denounced with much 
energy. 

Suddenly he seemed to grow nervous and perplexed. 
Esther was looking at him, and he said, “You don’t 
answer, Esther?” 

“What would you have me answer?’’ 

“You used to be a good, religious woman. Do you 
remember how we used to speak when we used to go 
for walks together, when you were in service in the 
Avondale road? I remember you agreeing with me 
that much good could be done by those who were 
determined to do it. You seem to have changed very 
much since those days.” 

For a moment Esther seemed affected by these 
remembrances. Then she said in a low, musical voice — 

“No, I’ve not changed, Fred, but things has turned 
out different. One doesn’t do the good that one would 
like to in the world ; one has to do the good that comes 
to one to do. I’ve my husband and my boy to look to. 
Them’s my good. At least, that’s how I sees things.” 

Fred looked at Esther, and his eyes expressed all the 
admiration and love that he felt for her character. 
“One owes a great deal,” he said, “to those who are 
near to one, but not everything; even for their sakes 
one should not do wrong to others, and you must see 
that you are doing a great wrong to your fellow-crea- 
tures by keeping on this betting. Public-houses are 
bad enough, but when it comes to gambling as well as 
drink, there’s nothing for us to do but to put the law 
in motion. Look you, Esther, there isn’t a shop -boy 
earning eighteen shillings a week that hasn’t been 


ESTHER WATERS 


391 


round here to put his half-crown on some horse. This 
house is the immoral centre of the neighbourhood. 
No one’s money is refused. The boy that pawned his 
father’s watch to back a horse went to the ‘King’s 
Head’ to put his money on. His father forgave him 
again and again. Then the boy stole from the lodgers. 
There was an old woman of seventy-five who got nine 
shillings a week for looking after some offices ; he had 
half-a-crown off her. Then the father told the magis- 
trate that he could do nothing with him since he had 
taken to betting on horse-races. The boy is fourteen. 
Is it not shocking? It cannot be allowed to go on. 
We have determined to put a stop to it. That’s what 
I came to tell your husband. ” 

“Are you sure,’’ said Esther, and she hither lips 
while she spoke, “that it is entirely for the neighbour- 
hood that you want to get up the prosecution?’’ 

“You don’t think there’s any other reason, Esther? 
You surely don’t think that I’m doing this because — 
because he took you away from me?’’ 

Esther didn’t answer. And then Fred said, and 
there was pain and pathos in his voice, “I am sorry 
you think this of me; I’m not getting up the prosecu- 
tion. I couldn’t prevent the law being put in motion 
against you even if I wanted to. ... I only know that 
it is going to be put in motion, so for the sake of old 
times I would save you from harm if I could. I came 
round to tell you if you did not put a stop to the bet- 
ting you’d get into trouble. I have no right to do 
what I have done, but I’d do anything to save you and 
yours from harm.’’ 

‘ ‘ I am sorry for what I said. It was very good of you. ’ ’ 

“We have not any proofs as yet; we know, of course, 


392 


ESTHER WATERS 


all about the betting, but we must have sworn testi- 
mony before the law can be set in motion, so you’ll be 
quite safe if you can persuade your husband to give it 
up.” Esther did not answer. “It is entirely on 
account of the friendship I feel for you that made me 
come to warn you of the danger. You don’t bear me 
any ill-will, Esther, I hope?” 

“No, Fred, I don’t. I think I understand.” The 
conversation paused again. “I suppose we have said 
everything. ’ ’ Esther turned her face from him. Fred 
looked at her, and though her eyes were averted from 
him she could see that he loved her. In another 
.moment he was gone. In her plain and ignorant way 
she thought on the romance of destiny. For if she had 
married Fred her life would have been quite different. 
She would have led the life that she wished to lead, 
but she had married William and — well, she must do 
the best she could. If Fred, or Fred’s friends, got the 
police to prosecute them for betting, they would, as he 
said, not only have to pay a heavy fine, but would 
probably lose their licence. Then what would they 
do? William had not health to go about from race- 
course to race-course as he used to. He had lost a lot 
of money in the last six months; Jack was at school — 
they must think of Jack. The thought of their danger 
lay on her heart all that evening. But she had had no 
opportunity of speaking to William alone, she had to 
wait until they were in their room. Then, as she 
untied the strings of her petticoats, she said — 

“I had a visit from Fred Parsons this afternoon.” 

“That’s the fellow you were engaged to marry. Is 
he after you still?” 

“No, he came to speak to me about the betting.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


393 


“About the betting — what is it to do with him?” 

“He says that if it isn’t stopped that we shall be 
prosecuted.” 

“So he came here to tell you that, did he? I wish I 
had been in the bar. ’ ’ 

“I’m glad you wasn’t. What good could you have 
done? To have a row and make things worse!” 

William lit his pipe and unlaced his boots. Esther 
slipped on her night-dress and got into a large brass 
bedstead, without curtains. On the chest of drawers 
Esther had placed the books her mother had given her, 
and William had hung some sporting prints on the 
walls. He took his night-shirt from the pillow and put 
it on without removing his pipe from his mouth. He 
always finished his pipe in bed. 

“It is revenge,” he said, pulling the bed-clothes up 
to his chin, “because I got you away from him.” 

“I don’t think it is that; I did think so at first, and I 
said so.” 

“What did he say?” 

“He said he was sorry I thought so badly of him; 
that he came to warn us of our danger. If he had 
wanted to do us an injury he wouldn’t have said noth- 
ing about it. Don’t you think so?” 

“It seems reasonable. Then what do you think 
they’re doing it for?” 

“He says that keeping a betting-house is corruption 
in the neighbourhood.” 

“You think he thinks that?” 

“I know he do; and there is many like him. I come 
of them that thinks like that, so I know. Betting and 
drink is what my folk, the Brethren, holds as most 
evil.” 


394 


ESTHER WATERS 


“But you’ve forgot all about them Brethren?’’ 

“No, one never forgets what one’s brought up in.’’ 

“But what do you think now?” 

“I’ve never said nothing about it. I don’t believe 
in a wife interfering with her husband ; and business 
was that bad, and your ’ealth ’asn’t been the same 
since them colds you caught standing about in them 
betting rings, so I don’t see how you could help it. 
But now that business is beginning to come back to us, 
it might be as well to give up the betting. ’ ’ 

“It is the betting that brings the business; we 
shouldn’t take five pounds a week was it not for the 
betting. What’s the difference between betting on 
the course and betting in the bar? No one says noth- 
ing against it on the course ; the police is there, and 
they goes after the welshers and persecutes them. 
Then the betting that’s done at Tattersall’s and the 
Albert Club, what is the difference? The Stock 
Exchange, too, where thousands and thousands is 
betted every day. It is the old story — one law for the 
rich and another for the poor. Why shouldn’t the poor 
man ’ave his ’alf-crown’s worth of excitement? The 
rich man can have his thousand pounds’ worth when- 
ever he pleases. The same with the public ’ouses — 
there’s a lot of hypocritical folk that is for docking the 
poor man of his beer, but there’s no one that’s for 
interfering with them that drink champagne in the 
clubs. It’s all bloody rot, and it makes me sick when 
I think of it. Them hypocritical folk. Betting! Isn’t 
everything betting? How can they put down betting? 
Hasn’t it been going on since the world began? Rot, 
says I! They can just ruin a poor devil like me, and 
that’s about all. We are ruined, and the rich goes 


ESTHER WATERS 


395 


scot-free. Hypocritical, mealy-mouthed lot. ‘Let’s 
say our prayers and sand the sugar’ ; that’s about it. 
I hate them that is always prating out religion. 
When I hears too much religion going about I says 
now’s the time to look into their accounts.” 

William leaned out of bed to light his pipe from the 
candle on the night-table. 

“There’s good people in the world, people that 
never thinks but of doing good, and do not live for 
pleasure.” 

“ ‘All work and no play makes Jack a dull boy,’ 
Esther. Their only pleasure is a bet. When they’ve 
one on they’ve something to look forward to ; whether 
they win or lose they ’as their money’s worth. You 
know what I say is true; you’ve seen them, how they 
look forward to the evening paper to see how the ’oss 
is going on in betting. Man can’t live without hope. 
It is their only hope, and I says no one has a right to 
take it from them.” 

“What about their poor wives? Very little good their 
betting is to them. It’s all very well to talk like that, 
William, but you know, and you can’t say you don’t, 
that a great deal of mischief comes of betting; you 
know that once they think of it and nothing else, they 
neglect their work. There’s Stack, he’s lost his place 
as porter; there’s Journeyman, too, he’s out of 
work. ” 

“And a good thing for them ; they’ve done a great 
deal better since they chucked it. ’ ’ 

“For the time, maybe; but who says it will go on? 
Look at old John; he’s going about in rags; and his 
poor wife, she was in here the other night, a terrible 
life she’s ’ad of it. You says that no ’arm comes of it. 


39 ^ 


ESTHER WATERS 


What about that boy that was ’ad up the other day, and 
said that it was all through betting? He began by 
pawning his father’s watch. It was here that he made 
the first bet. You won’t tell me that it is right to bet 
with bits of boys like that. ’ ’ 

“The horse he backed with me won.’’ 

“So much the worse. . . . The boy’ll never do 
another honest day’s work as long as he lives. . . . 
When they win, they ’as a drink for luck ; when they 
loses, they ’as a drink to cheer them up. ’’ 

“I’m afraid, Esther, you ought to have married the 
other chap. He’d have given you the life that you’d 
have been happy in. This public- ’ouse ain’t suited to 
you. ’ ’ 

Esther turned round and her eyes met her husband’s. 
There was a strange remoteness in his look, and they 
seemed very far from each other. 

“I was brought up to think so differently,’’ she 
said, her thoughts going back to her early years in the 
little southern sea-side home. “I suppose this betting 
and drinking will always seem to me sinful and 
wicked. I should ’ave liked quite a different kind of 
life, but we don’t choose our lives, we just makes the 
best of them. You was the father of my child, and it 
all dates from that. ’ ’ 

“I suppose it do.’’ 

William lay on his back, and blew the smoke swiftly 
from his mouth. 

“If you smoke much more we shan’t be able to 
breathe in this room. ’’ 

“I won’t smoke no more. Shall I blow the candle 
out?’’ 

“Yes, if you like.*' 


ESTHER WATERS 


397 


When the room was in darkness, just before they 
settled their faces on the pillow for sleep, William 
said — 

“It was good of that fellow to come and warn us. I 
must be very careful for the future with whom I bet. ’ ' 


XXXVII. 


On Sunday, as soon as dinner was over, Esther had 
intended to go to East Dulwich to see Mrs. Lewis. 
But as she closed the door behind her, she saw Sarah 
coming up the street. 

“Ah, I see you’re going out.” 

“It don’t matter; won’t you come in, if it’s only for 
a minute?’’ 

“No, thank you, I won’t keep you. But v^hich way 
are you going? We might go a little way together.’’ 

They walked down Waterloo Place and along Pall 
Mall. In Trafalgar Square there was a demonstra- 
tion, and Sarah lingered in the crowd so long that 
when they arrived at Charing Cross, Esther found that 
she could not get to Ludgate Hill in time to catch her 
train, so they went into the Embankment Gardens. It 
had been raining, and the women wiped the seats with 
their handkerchiefs before sitting down. There was 
no fashion to interest them, and the band sounded 
foolish in the void of the grey London Sunday. 
Sarah’s chatter was equally irrelevant, and Esther 
wondered how Sarah could talk so much about nothing, 
and regretted her visit to East Dulwich more and 
more. Suddenly Bill’s name came into the conversa- 
tion. 

“But I thought you didn’t see him any more; you 
promised us you wouldn’t.’’ 

“I couldn’t help it. . . . It was quite an accident. 

398 


ESTHER WATERS 


399 


One day, coming back from church with Annie — that’s 
the new housemaid — he came up and spoke to us.” 

“What did he say?” 

“He said, ‘How are ye? . . . Who’d thought of 
meeting you ! ’ ” 

“And what did you say?” 

“I said I didn’t want to have nothing to do with 
him. Annie walked on, and then he said he was very 
sorry, that it was bad luck that drove him to it. ’ ’ 

“And you believed him?” 

“I daresay it is very foolish of me. But one can’t 
help oneself. Did you ever really care for a man?” 

And without waiting for an answer, Sarah continued 
her babbling chatter. She had asked him not to come 
after her; she thought he was sorry for what he had 
done. She mentioned incidentally that he had been 
away in the country and had come back with very par- 
ticular information regarding a certain horse for the 
Cesare witch. If the horse won he’d be all right. 

At last Esther’s patience was tired out. 

“It must be getting late,” she said, looking towards 
where the sun was setting. The river rippled, and the 
edges of the warehouses had perceptibly softened; a 
wind, too, had come up with the tide, and the women 
shivered as they passed under the arch of Waterloo 
Bridge. They ascended a flight of high steps and 
walked through a passage into the Strand. 

“I was miserable enough with him; we used to have 
hardly anything to eat; but I’m more miserable away 
from him. Esther, I know you’ll laugh at me, but I’m 
that heart-broken ... I can’t live without him . . . 
I’d do anything for him.” 

“He isn’t worth it.” 


400 


ESTHER WATERS 


“That don’t make no difference. You don’t know 
what love is ; a woman who hasn’t loved a man who 
don’t love her, don’t. We used to live near here. Do 
you mind coming up Drury Lane? I should like to 
show you the house. ’ ’ 

“I’m afraid it will be out of our way.’’ 

“No, it won’t. Round by the church and up New- 
castle Street. . . . Look, there’s a shop we used to go 
to sometimes. I’ve eaten many a good sausage and 
onions in there, and that’s a pub where we often used 
to go for a drink. ’ ’ 

The courts and alleys had vomited their population 
into the Lane. Fat girls clad in shawls sat round the 
slum opening nursing their babies. Old women 
crouched in decrepit doorways, fumbling their aprons ; 
skipping ropes whirled in the roadway. A little 
higher up a vendor of cheap ices had set up his store 
and was rapidly absorbing all the pennies of the 
neighborhood. Esther and Sarah turned into a dilapi- 
dated court, where a hag argued the price of trotters 
with a family leaning one over the other out of a 
second-floor window. This was the block in which 
Sarah had lived. A space had been cleared by the 
builder, and the other side was shut in by the great 
wall of the old theatre. 

“That’s where we used to live,’’ said Sarah, pointing 
up to the third floor. “I fancy our house will soon 
come down. When I see the old place it all comes 
back to me. I remember ' pawning a dress over the 
way in the lane ; they would only lend me a shilling on 
it. And you see that shop — the shutters is up, it being 
Sunday; it is a sort of butcher’s, cheap meat, livers and 
lights, trotters, and such-like, I bought a bullock’s 


ESTHER WATERS 


401 


heart there, and stewed it down with some potatoes ; 
we did enjoy it, I can tell you.” 

Sarah talked so eagerly of herself that Esther had 
not the heart to interrupt her. They made their way 
out into Catherine Street, and then to Endell Street, 
and then going round to St. Giles’ Church, they 
plunged into the labyrinth of Soho. 

‘T’m afraid I’m tiring you. I don’t see what inter- 
est all this can be to you.” 

“We’ve known each other a long time.” 

Sarah looked at her, and then, unable to resist the 
temptation, she continued her narrative — Bill had said 
this, she had said that. She rattled on, until they 
came to the corner of Old Compton Street. Esther, 
who was a little tired of her, held out her hand. “I 
suppose you must be getting back ; would you like a 
drop of something?” 

“It is going on for seven o’clock; but since you’re 
that kind I think I’d like a glass of beer.” 

“Do you listen much to the betting talk here of an 
evening?” Sarah asked, as she was leaving. 

“I don’t pay much attention, but I can’t help hear- 
ing a good deal.” 

“Do they talk much about Ben Jonson for the 
Cesare witch?” 

“They do, indeed; he’s all the go.” 

Sarah’s face brightened perceptibly, and Esther 
said — 

“Have you backed him?’ 

“Only a trifle; half-a-crown that a friend put me on. 
Do they say he’ll win?” 

“They say that if he don’t break down he’ll win by 
’alf a mile; it all depends on his leg.” 


402 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Is he coming on in the betting?” 

“Yes, I believe they* re now taking 12 to i about 
him. But I’ll ask William, if you like.” 

“No, no, I only wanted to know if you’d heard any- 
thing new.” 


XXXVIII. 


During the next fortnight Sarah came several times 
to the “King’s Head. ” She came in about nine in the 
evening, and stayed for half-an-hour or more. The 
ostensible object of her visit was to see Esther, but 
she declined to come into the private bar, where they 
would have chatted comfortably, and remained in the 
public bar listening to the men’s conversation, listen- 
ing and nodding while old John explained the horse’s 
staying power to her. On the following evening all 
her interest was in Ketley. She wanted to know if 
anything had happened that might be considered as an 
omen. She said she had dreamed about the race, but 
her dream was only a lot of foolish rubbish without 
head or tail. Ketley argued earnestly against this 
view of a serious subject, and in the hope of convinc- 
ing her of her error offered to walk as far as Oxford 
Street with her and put her into her ’bus. But on the 
following evening all her interest was centered in Mr. 
Journeyman, who declared that he could prove that 
according to the weight it seemed to him to look more 
and more like a certainty. He had let the horse in at 
six stone ten pounds, the official handicapper had only 
given him six stone seven pounds. 

“They is a-sending of him along this week, and if 
the leg don’t go it is a hundred pound to a brass far- 
thing on the old horse.** 

“How many times will they gallop him?’’ Sarah 
asked. 


403 


404 


ESTHER WATERS 


“He goes a mile and a ’arf every day now. . . . The 
day after to-morrow they’ll try him, just to see that 
he hasn’t lost his turn of speed, and if he don’t break 
down in the trial you can take it from me that it will 
be all right.’’ 

“When will you know the result of the trial?’’ 

“I expect a letter on Friday morning,’’ said Stack. 
“If you come in in the evening I’ll let you know 
about it.” 

“Thank you very much, Mr. Stack. I must be get- 
ting home now. ’ ’ 

“I’m going your way. Miss Tucker. ... If you like 
we’ll go together, and I’ll tell you,’’ he whispered, 
“all about the ’orse. ’’ 

When they had left the bar the conversation turned 
on racing as an occupation for women. 

“Fancy my wife making a book on the course. I 
bet she’d overlay it and then turn round and back the 
favorite at a shorter price than she’d been laying.’’ 

“I don’t know that we should be any foolisher than 
you,’’ said Esther; “don’t you never go and overlay 
your book? What about Syntax and the ’orse you told 
me about last week?’’ 

William had been heavily hit last week through 
overlaying his book against a horse he didn’t believe 
in, and the whole bar joined in the laugh against him. 

“I don’t say nothing about bookmaking,’’ said 
Journeyman; “but there’s a great many women nowa- 
days who is mighty sharp at spotting a ’orse that the 
handicapper had let in pretty easy.’’ 

“This one,’’ said Ketley, jerking his thumb in the 
direction that Stack and Sarah had gone, “seems to 
*ave got hold of something.*’ 


ESTHER WATERS 


405 


“We must ask Stack when he comes back,” and 
Journeyman winked at William. 

“Women do get that excited over trifles,” old John 
remarked, sarcastically. “She ain’t got above ’alf-a- 
crown on the ’orse, if that. She don’t care about the 
’orse or the race — no woman ever did; it’s all about 
some sweetheart that’s been piling it on.” 

“I wonder if you’re right,” said Esther, reflectively. 
‘ ‘ I never knew her before to take such an interest in a 
horse-race. ” 

On the day of the race Sarah came into the private 
bar about three o’clock. The news was not yet in. 

“Wouldn’t you like to step into the parlour; you’ll 
be more comfortable?” said Esther. 

“No thank you, dear; it is not worth while. I 
thought I’d like to know which won, that’s all.” 

“Have you much on?” 

“No, five shillings altogether. . . . But a friend of 
mine stands to win a good bit. I see you’ve got a new 
dress, dear. When did you get it?” 

“I’ve had the stuff by me some time. I only had it 
made up last month. Do you like it?” 

Sarah answered that she thought it very pretty. 
But Esther could see that she was thinking of some- 
thing quite different. 

“The race is over now. It’s run at half-past two.” 

“Yes, but they’re never quite punctual; there may 
be a delay at the post.” 

“I see you know all about it.” 

“One never hears of anything else.” 

Esther asked Sarah when her people came back to 
town, and was surprised at the change of expression 
that the question brought to her friend’s face. 


4o6 


ESTHER WATERS 


“They’re expected back to-morrow,’’ she said. 
“Why do you ask?’’ 

“Oh, nothing; something to say, that’s all.’’ 

The conversation paused, and the two women looked 
at each other. At that moment a voice coming rapidly 
towards them . was heard calling, “Win-ner, win-ner!’’ 

“I’ll send out for the paper,’’ said Esther. 

“No, no . . . Suppose he shouldn’t have won?’’ 

“Well, it won’t make any difference.” 

“Oh, Esther, no; some one will come in and tell us. 
The race can’t be over yet; it is a long race, and takes 
some time to run. ’ ’ 

By this time the boy was far away, and fainter and 
fainter the terrible word, “Win-ner, win-ner, win- 
ner. ’ ’ 

“It’s too late now,” said Sarah; “some one’ll come 

in presently and tell us about it I daresay it 

ain’t the paper at all. Them boys cries out an)d;hing 
that will sell. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ W in-ner, win-ner. ’ ’ The voice was coming towards 
them. 

“If he has won. Bill and I is to marry. . . . Some- 
how I feel as if he hasn’t. ’ ’ 

“Win-ner.” 

“We shall soon know.” Esther took a halfpenny 
from the till. 

“Don’t you think we’d better wait? It can’t be 
printed in the papers, not the true account, and if it 

was wrong ” Esther didn’t answer; she gave 

Charles the halfpenny; he went out, and in a few 
minutes came back with the paper in his hand. 
“Tornado first, Ben Jonson second. Woodcraft third,” 
he read out. “That’s a good thing for the guv’nor. 


ESTHER WATERS 407 

There was very few what backed Tornado. ... He’s 
only lost some place-money. ’ ’ 

“So he was only second,” said Sarah, turning 
deadly pale. “They said he was certain to win. ” 

“I hope you’ve not lost much,” said Esther. “It 
wasn’t with William that you backed him.” 

“No, it wasn’t with William. I only had a few 
shillings on. It don’t matter. Let me have a drink. ” 

“What will you have?” 

“Some whisky.” 

Sarah drank it neat. Esther looked at her doubt- 
fully. 

The bars would be empty for the next two hours ; 
Esther wished to utilize this time ; she had some shop- 
ping to do, and asked Sarah to come with her. But 
Sarah complained of being tired, and said she would 
see her when she came back. 

Esther went out a little perplexed. She was 
detained longer than she expected, and when she 
returned Sarah was staggering about in the bar-room, 
asking Charles for one more drink. 

“All bloody rot; who says I’m drunk? I ain’t . . . 
look at me. The ’orse did not win, did he? I say he 
did ; papers all so much bloody rot. ’ ’ 

“Oh, Sarah, what is this?” 

“Who’s this? Leave go, I say.” 

“Mr. Stack, won’t you ask her to come upstairs? 
. . . . Don’t encourage her.” 

“Upstairs? I’m a free woman. I don’t want to go 
upstairs. I’m a free woman; tell me,” she said, 
balancing herself with difficulty and staring at Esther 
with dull, fishy eyes, “tell me if I 'm not a free woman? 
What do I want upstairs for?” 


4o8 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Oh, Sarah, come upstairs and lie down. Don’t go 
out.” 

“I’m going home. Hands off, hands off!” she said, 
slapping Esther’s hands from her arm. 

“ ‘For every one was drunk last night, 

And drunk the night before ; 

And if we don’t get drunk to-night, 

We won’t get drunk no more. 

(Chorus. ) 

“ ‘Now you will have a drink with me. 

And I will drink with you ; 

For we’re the very rowdiest lot 
Of the rowdy Irish crew. ’ 

“That’s what we used to sing in the Lane, yer 
know; should ’ave seen the coster gals with their 
feathers, dancing and clinking their pewters. Rippin 
Day, Bank ’oliday, Epping, under the trees — ’ow they 
did romp, them gals ! 

“ ‘We all was roaring drunk last night. 

And drunk the night before ; 

And if we don’t get drunk to-night 
We won’t get drunk no more.’ 

Girls and boys, you know, all together.” 

“Sarah, listen to me.” 

“Listen! Come and have a drink, old gal, just 
another drink.” She staggered up to the counter. 
“One more, just for luck; do yer ’ear?” Before 
Charles could stop her she had seized the whisky that 
had just been served. “That’s my whisky,” exclaimed 
Journeyman. He made a rapid movement, but was too 


ESTHER WATERS 


409 


late. Sarah had drained the glass and stood vacantly 
looking into space. Journeyman seemed so discon- 
certed at the loss of his whisky that every one laughed. 

A few moments after Sarah staggered forward and 
fell insensible into his arms. He and Esther carried 
her upstairs and laid her on the bed in the spare room. 

“She’ll be precious bad to-morrow, ’ ’ said Journey- 
man. 

“I don’t know how you could have gone on helping 
her, ’ ’ Esther said to Charles when she got inside the 
bar; and she seemed so pained that out of deference to 
her feelings the subject was dropped out of the con- 
versation. Esther felt that something shocking had 
happened. Sarah had deliberately got drunk. She 
would not have done that unless she had some great 
trouble on her mind. William, too, was of this opin- 
ion. Something serious must have happened. As 
they went up to their room Esther said- 

“It is all the fault of this betting. The neighbour- 
hood is completely ruined. They’re losing their ’omes 
and their furniture, and you’ll bear the blame of it.” 

“It do make me so wild to hear you talkin’ that. way, 
Esther. People will bet, you can’t stop them. I lays 
fair prices, and they’re sure of their money. Yet you 
says they’re losin’ their furniture, and that I shall have 
to bear the blame. ’ ’ 

When they got to the top of the stairs she said — 

“I must go and see how Sarah is. ’’ 

“Where am I? What’s happened? . . . Take that 
candle out of my eyes. . . . Oh, my head is that pain- 
ful.’’ She fell back on the pillow, and Esther thought 
she had gone to sleep again. But she opened her eyes. 
“Where am I?. . . That’s you, Esther?” 


410 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Yes. Can’t you remember?” 

“No, I can’t. I remember that the ’orse didn’t win, 
but don’t remember nothing after. ... I got drunk, 
didn’t I? It feels like it.” 

“The ’orse didn’t win, and then you took too much. 
It’s very foolish of you to give way. ” 

“Give way! Drunk, what matter? I’m done for.” 

“Did you lose much?” 

“It wasn’t what I lost, it was what I took. I gave 
Bill the plate to pledge ; it’s all gone, and master and 
missis coming back to-morrow. Don’t talk about it. 
I got drunk so that I shouldn’t think of it.” 

“Oh, Sarah, I didn’t think it was as bad as that. 
You must tell me all about it. ” 

“I don’t want to think about it. They’ll come soon 
enough to take me away. Besides, I cannot remem- 
ber nothing now. My mouth’s that awful Give 

me a drink. Never mind the glass, give me the water- 
bottle. ’ ’ 

She drank ravenously, and seemed to recover a 
little. Esther pressed her to tell her about the pledged 
plate. “You know that I’m your friend. You’d 
better tell me. I want to help you out of this scrape. ’ ’ 

“No one can help me now, I’m done for. Let them 
come and take me. I’ll go with them. I shan’t say 
nothing.” 

“How much is it in for? Don’t cry like that,” 
Esther said, and she took out her handkerchief and 
wiped Sarah’s eyes. “How much is it in for? Per- 
haps I can get my husband to lend me the money to 
get it out.” 

“It’s no use trying to help me. . . . Esther, I can’t 
talk about it now ; I shall go mad if I do. ” 


ESTHER WATERS 


411 

“Tell me how much you got on it.” 

“Thirty pounds.” 

It took a long time to undress her. Every now and 
then she made an effort, and another article of clothing 
was got off. When Esther returned to her room Wil- 
Ham was asleep, and Esther took him by the shoulder. 

“It is more serious than I thought,” she shouted. 
“I want to tell you about it. ” 

“What about it?” he said, opening his eyes. 

“She has pledged the plate for thirty pounds to back 
that ’orse.” 

“What ’orse?” 

“Ben Jon son. ” 

“He broke down at the bushes. If he hadn’t I 
should have been broke up. The whole neighbourhood 
was on him. So she pledged the plate to back him. 
She didn’t do that to back him herself. Some one 
must have put her up to it. ’ ’ 

“Yes, it was Bill Evans.” 

“Ah, that blackguard put her up to it. I thought 
she’d left him for good. She promised us that she’d 
never speak to him again. ’ ’ 

“You see, she was that fond of him that she couldn’t 
help herself. There’s many that can’t.” 

“How much did they get on the plate?” 

“Thirty pounds. ” 

William blew a long whistle. Then, starting up in 
bed, he said, “She can’t stop here. If it comes out 
that it was through betting, it won’t do this house any 
good. We’re already suspected. There’s that old 
sweetheart of yours, the Salvation cove, on the look- 
out for evidence of betting being carried on.” 

“She’ll go away in the morning. But I thought 


412 


ESTHER WATERS 


that you might lend her the money to get the plate 
out.” 

“What! thirty pounds?” 

“It’s a deal of money, I know; but I thought that 
you might be able to manage it. You’ve been lucky 
over this race. ” 

“Yes, but think of all I’ve lost this summer. 
This is the first bit of luck I’ve had for a long 
while.” 

“I thought you might be able to manage it.” 

Esther stood by the bedside, her knee leaned against 
the edge. She seemed to him at that moment as the 
best woman in the world, and he said — 

“Thirty pounds is no more to me than two-pence- 
halfpenny if you wish it, Esther. ’ ’ 

“I haven’t been an extravagant wife, have I?” she 
said, getting into bed and taking him in her arms. ‘ ‘ I 
never asked you for money before. She’s my friend 
— she’s yours too — we’ve known her all our lives. We 
can’t see her go to prison, can we. Bill, without rais- 
ing a finger to save her?” 

She had never called him Bill before, and the 
familiar abbreviation touched him, and he said — 

“I owe everything to you, Esther; everything that’s 
mine is yours. But,” he said, drawing away so that he 
might see her better, “what do you say if I ask some- 
thing of you?” 

“What are you going to ask me?” 

“I want you to say that you won’t bother me no 
more about the betting. You was brought up to think 
it wicked. I know all that, but you see we can’t do 
without it. ’ ’ 

“Do you think not?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


413 


“Don’t the thirty pounds you’re asking for Sarah 
come out of betting?” 

“I suppose it do.” 

“Most certainly it do. ” 

“I can’t help feeling, Bill, that we shan’t always be 
so lucky as we have been. ’ ’ 

“You mean that you think that one of these days we 
shall have the police down upon us?” 

“Don’t you sometimes think that we can’t always go 
on without being caught? Every day I hear of the 
police being down on some betting club or other. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘They’ve been down on a great number lately, but 
what can I do? We always come back to that. I 
haven’t the health to work round from race-course to 
race-course as I used to. But I’ve got an idea, Esther. 
I’ve been thinking over things a great deal lately, and 
— ^give me my pipe — there, it’s just by you. Now, hold 
the candle, like a good girl. ’ ’ 

William pulled at his pipe until it was fully lighted. 
He threw himself on his back, and then he said — 
“I’ve been thinking things over. The betting ’as 
brought us a nice bit of trade here. If we can work 
up the business a bit more we might, let’s say in a 
year from now, be able to get as much for the ’ouse as 
we gave. . . . What do you think of buying a busi- 
ness in the country, a ’ouse doing a steady trade? 
I’ve had enough of London, the climate don’t suit me 
as it used to. I fancy I should be much better in the 
country, somewhere on the South Coast. Bournemouth 
way, what do you think?” 

Before Esther could reply William was taken with a 
fit of coughing, and his great broad frame was shaken 
as if it were so much paper. 


414 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I’m sure,” said Esther, when he had recovered 
himself a little, “that a good deal of your trouble 
comes from that pipe. It’s never out of your mouth. 
. . . I feel like choking myself.” 

“I daresay I smoke too much. ... I’m not the man 
I was. I can feel it plain enough. Put my pipe down 
and blow out the candle. ... I didn’t ask you how 
Sarah was. ’ ’ 

“Very bad. She was half dazed and didn’t tell me 
much. ’ ’ 

“She didn’t tell you where she had pledged the 
plate?” 

“No, I will ask her about that to-morrow morning.” 
Leaning forward she blew out the candle. The wick 
smouldered red for a moment, and they fell asleep 
happy in each other’s love, seeming to find new bonds 
of union in pity for their friend’s misfortune. 


XXXIX. 


“Sarah, you must make an effort and try to dress 
yourself. ’ ’ 

“Oh, I do feel that bad, I wish I was dead!” 

“You must not give way like that; let me help you 
put on your stockings. ’ ’ 

Sarah looked at Esther. “You’re very good to me, 
but I can manage.” When she had drawn on her 
stockings her strength was exhausted, and she fell 
back on the pillow. 

Esther waited a few minutes. “Here 're your petti- 
coats. Just tie them round you; I’ll lend you a 
dressing-gown and a pair of slippers. ” 

William was having breakfast in the parlour. 
“Well, feeling a bit poorly?” he said to Sarah. 
“What’ll you have? There’s a nice bit of fried fish. 
Not feeling up to it?” 

“Oh, no! I couldn’t touch anything.” She let her- 
self drop on the sofa. 

“A cup of tea ’ll do you good,” said Esther. “You 
must have a cup of tea, and a bit of toast just to 
nibble. William, pour her out a cup of tea.” 

When she had drunk the tea she said she felt a little 
better. 

“Now,” said William, “let’s ’ear all about it. 
Esther has told you, no doubt, that we intend to do all 
we can to help you.” 

“You can’t help me. ... I’m done for,” she 
replied dolefully. 


415 


4i6 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I don’t know about that,” said William. “You 
gave that brute Bill Evans the plate to pawn, so far as 
I know. * ’ 

“There isn’t much more to tell. He said the horse 
was sure to win. He was at thirty to one at 
that time. A thousand to thirty. Bill said with 
that money we could buy a public-house in the 
country. He wanted to settle down, he wanted to get 

out of 1 don’t want to say nothing against him. 

He said if I would only give him this chance of lead- 
ing a respectable life, we was to be married imme- 
diately after.” 

“He told you all that, did he? He said he’d give 
you a ’ome of your own, I know. A regular rotter; 
that man is about as bad as they make ’em. And you 
believed it all?” 

“It wasn’t so much what I believed as what I 
couldn’t help myself. He had got that influence over 
me that my will wasn’t my own. I don’t know how it 
is — I suppose men have stronger natures than women. 
I ’ardly knew what I was doing; it was like sleep- 
walking. He looked at me and said, ‘You’d better do 
it. ’ I did it, and I suppose I’ll have to go to prison for 
it. What I says is just the truth, but no one believes 
tales like that. How long do you think they’ll give 
me?” 

“I hope we shall be able to get you out of this 
scrape. You got thirty pounds on the plate. Esther 
has told you that I’m ready to lend you the money to 
get it out.” 

“Will you do this? You’re good friends indeed. . . 
But I shall never be able to pay you back such a lot of 
money.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


417 


“We won’t say nothing about paying back; all we 
want you to do is to say that you’ll never see that fel- 
low again. ’ ’ 

A change of expression came over Sarah’s face, and 
William said, “You’re surely not still hankering after 
him?” 

“No, indeed I’m not. But whenever I meets him he 
somehow gets his way with me. It’s terrible to love a 
man as I love him. I know he don’t really care for 
me — I know he is all you say, and yet I can’t help 
myself. It is better to be honest with you. ” 

William looked puzzled. At the end of a long si- 
lence he said, “If it’s like that I don’t see that we can 
do anything. ’ ’ 

“Have patience, William. Sarah don’t know what 
she’s saying. She’ll promise not to see him again.” 

“You’re very kind to me. I know I’m very foolish. 
I promised before not to see him, and I couldn’t keep 
my promise. ” 

“You can stop with us until you get a situation in 
the country,” said Esther, “where you’ll be out of his 
way. ’ ’ 

“I might do that.” 

“I don’t like to part with my money,” said William, 
“if it is to do no one any good.” Esther looked at 
him, and he added, “It is just as Esther wishes, of 
course; I’m not giving you the money, it is she.” 

“It is both of us,” said Esther; “you’ll do what I 
said, Sarah?” 

“Oh, yes, anything you say, Esther,” and she flung 
herself into her friend’s arms and wept bitterly. 

“Now we want to know where you pawned the 
plate, ' ’ said William. 


4i8 


ESTHER WATERS 


“A long way from here. Bill said he knew a place 
where it would be quite safe. I was to say that my 
mistress left it to me ; he said that would be sufficient. 
... It was in the Mile End Road. ’ ’ 

“You’d know the shop again?’’ said William. 

“But she’s got the ticket,’’ said Esther. 

“No, I ain’t got the ticket; Bill has it.’’ 

“Then I’m afraid the game’s up.’’ 

“Do be quiet,’’ said Esther, angrily. “If you want 
to get out of lending the money say so and have done 
with it.’’ 

“That’s not true, Esther. If you want another 
thirty to pay him to give up the ticket, you can have it. ’’ 

Esther thanked her husband with one quick look. 
“I’m sorry,’’ she said, “my temper is that hasty. But 
you know where he lives,’’ she said, turning to the 
wretched woman who sat on the sofa pale and trem- 
bling. 

“Yes, I know where he lives — 13 Milward Square, 
Mile End Road.’’ 

“Then we’ve no time to lose; we must go after him 
at once. ’ ’ 

“No, William dear; you must not; you’d only lose - 
your temper, and he might do you an injury.” 

“An injury! I’d soon show him which was the best 
man of the two.” 

“I’ll not hear of it, Sarah. He mustn’t go with you. ’ ’ 

“Come, Esther, don’t be foolish. Let me go.” 

He had taken his hat from the peg. Esther got 
between him and the door. 

“I forbid it,” she said; “I will not let you go — per- 
haps to have a fight, and with that cough. ’ ’ 

William was coughing. He had turned pale, and he 


ESTHER WATERS 


419 


said, leaning against the table, “Give me something to 
drink, a little milk. ’ ' 

Esther poured some into a cup. He sipped it 
slowly. “I’ll go upstairs, “ she said, “for my hat and 
jacket. You’ve got your betting to attend to.’’ Wil- 
liam smiled. “Sarah, mind, he’s not to go with you." 

“You forget what you said last night about the 
betting. ’’ 

“Never mind what I said last night about the bet- 
ting; what I say now is that you’re not to leave the 
bar. Come upstairs, Sarah, and dress yourself, and 
let’s be off.’’ 

Stack and Journeyman were waiting to speak to 
him. They had lost heavily over old Ben and didn’t 
know how they’d pull through; and the whole neigh- 
bourhood was in the same plight ; the bar was filled 
with gloomy faces. 

And as William scanned their disconcerted faces — 
clerks, hair-dressers, waiters from the innumerable 
eating houses — he could not help thinking that perhaps 
more than one of them had taken money that did not 
belong to them to back Ben Jonson. The unexpected 
disaster had upset all their plans, and even the wary 
ones who had a little reserve fund could not help 
backing outsiders, hoping by the longer odds to 
retrieve yesterday’s losses. At two the bar was 
empty, and William waited for Esther and Sarah to 
return from Mile End. It seemed to him that they 
were a long time away. But Mile End is not close to 
Soho; and when they returned, between four and five, 
he saw at once that they had been unsuccessful. He 
lifted up the flap in the counter and all three went into 
the parlour. 


420 


ESTHER WATERS 


“He left Milward Square yesterday,” Esther said. 
“Then we went to another address, and then to 
another; we went to all the places Sarah had been to 
with him, but no tidings anywhere. 

Sarah burst into tears. “There’s no more hope,” 
she said. “I’m done for; they’ll come and take me 
away. How much do you think I’ll get? They won’t 
give me ten years, will they?” 

“I can see nothing else for you to do,” said Esther, 
“but to go straight back to your people and tell 
them the whole story, and throw yourself on their 
mercy. ’ ’ 

“Do you mean that she should say that she pawned 
the plate to get money to back a horse?” 

“Of course I do.” 

“It will make the police more keen than ever on the 
betting-houses. ’ ’ 

“That can’t be helped.” 

“She’d better not be took here,” said William; “it 
will do a great deal of harm. ... It don’t make no 
difference to her where she’s took, do it?” 

Esther did not answer. 

“I’ll go away. I don’t want to get no one into 
trouble, ’ ’ Sarah said, and she got up from the sofa. 

At that moment Charles opened the door, and said, 
“You’re wanted in the bar, sir.” 

William went out quickly. He returned a moment 
after. There was a scared look on his face. “They’re 
here,” he said. He was followed by two policemen. 
Sarah uttered a little cry. 

“Your name is Sarah Tucker?” said the first police- 
man. 

“Yes.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


421 


“You’re charged with robbery by Mr. Sheldon, 34, 
Cumberland Place. ’ ’ 

“Shall I be taken through the streets?” 

“If you like to pay for it, you can go in a cab,” the 
police-officer replied. 

“I’ll go with you, dear,” Esther said. William 
plucked her by the sleeve. “It will do no good. Why 
should you go?” 


XL. 


The magistrate of course sent the case for trial, and 
the thirty pounds which William had promised to give 
to Esther went to pay for the defence. There seemed 
at first some hope that the prosecution would not be 
able to prove its case, but fresh evidence connecting 
Sarah with the abstraction of the plate was forthcom- 
ing, and in the end it was thought advisable that the 
plea of not guilty should be withdrawn. The efforts 
of counsel were therefore directed towards a mitiga- 
tion of sentence. Counsel called Esther and William 
for the purpose of proving the excellent character that 
the prisoner had hitherto borne ; counsel spoke of the 
evil influence into which the prisoner had fallen, and 
urged that she had no intention of actually stealing the 
plate. Tempted by promises, she had been persuaded 
to pledge the plate in order to back a horse which she 
had been told was certain to win. If that horse had 
won, the plate would have been redeemed and returned 
to its proper place in the owner’s house, and the pris- 
oner would have been able to marry. Possibly the 
marriage on which the prisoner had set her heart 
would have turned out more unfortunate for the pris- 
oner than the present proceedings. Counsel had not 
words strong enough to stigmatise the character of a 
man who, having induced a girl to imperil her liberty 
for his own vile ends, was cowardly enough to abandon 
her in the hour of her deepest distress. Counsel drew 
attention to the trusting nature of the prisoner, who 
422 


ESTHER WATERS 


423 


had not only pledged her employer’s plate at his base 
instigation, but had likewise been foolish enough to 
confide the pawn -ticket to his keeping. Such was the 
prisoner’s story, and he submitted that it bore on the 
face of it the stamp of truth. A very sad story, but 
one full of . simple, foolish, trusting humanity, and, 
having regard to the excellent character the prisoner 
had borne, counsel hoped that his lordship would see 
his way to dealing leniently with her. 

His Lordship, whose gallantries had been pro- 
longed over half a century, and whose betting trans- 
actions were matters of public comment, pursed up 
his ancient lips and fixed his dead glassy eyes on the 
prisoner. He said he regretted that he could not take 
the same view of the prisoner’s character as learned 
counsel had done. The police had made every effort 
to apprehend the man Evans who, according to the 
prisoner’s story, was the principal culprit. But the 
efforts of the police had been unavailing; they had, 
however, found traces of the man Evans, who 
undoubtedly did exist, and need not be considered to 
be a near relative of our friend Mrs. Harris. And the 
little joke provoked some amusement in the court; 
learned counsel settled their robes becomingly and 
leant forward to listen. They were in for a humorous 
speech, and the prisoner would get off with a light 
sentence. But the grim smile waxed duller, and it 
was clear that lordship was determined to make the 
law a terror to evil-doers. Lordship drew attention to 
the fact that during the course of their investigations 
the police had discovered that the prisoner had been 
living for some considerable time with the man 
Evans, during which time several robberies had been 


424 


ES THER WA TERS 


effected. There was no evidence, it was true, to con- 
nect the prisoner with these robberies. The prisoner 
had left the man Evans and had obtained a situation 
in the house of her present employers. When the 
characters she had received from her former employers 
were being examined she had accounted for the year 
she had spent with the man Evans by saying that she 
had been staying with the Latches, the publicans who 
had given evidence in her favour. It had also come 
to the knowledge of the police that the man Evans used 
to frequent the “King’s Head,” that was the house 
owned by the Latches ; it was probable that she had 
made there the acquaintance of the man Evans. The 
prisoner had referred her employers to the Latches, 
who had lent their sanction to the falsehood regarding 
the year she was supposed to have spent with them, 
but which she had really spent in cohabitation with a 
notorious thief. Here lordship indulged in severe 
remarks against those who enabled not wholly irre- 
proachable characters to obtain situations by false pre- 
tences, a very common habit, and one attended with 
great danger to society, one which society would do 
well to take precautions to defend itself against. 

The plate, his Lordship remarked, was said to have 
been pawned, but there was nothing to show that it 
had been pawned, the prisoner’s explanation being 
that she had given the pawn-ticket to the man Evans. 
She could not tell where she had pawned the plate, her 
tale being that she and the man Evans had gone down 
to Whitechapel together and pawned it in the Mile End 
Road.' But she did not know the number of the pawn- 
broker’s, nor could she give any indications as to its 
whereabouts— beyond the mere fact that it was in the 


ESTHER WATERS 


425 


Mile End Road she could say nothing. All the pawn- 
brokers in the Mile End Road had been searched, but 
no plate answering to the description furnished by the 
prosecution could be found. 

Learned counsel had endeavoured to show that it 
had been in a measure unpremeditated, that it was the 
result of a passing but irresistible temptation. 
Learned counsel had endeavoured to introduce some 
element of romance into the case ; he had described the 
theft as the outcome of the prisoner’s desire of mar- 
riage, but lordship could not find such purity of motive 
in the prisoner’s crime. There was nothing to show 
that there was any thought of marriage in the pris- 
oner’s mind; the crime was the result, not of any 
desire of marriage, but rather the result of vicious 
passion, concubinage. Regarding the plea that the 
crime was unpremeditated, it was only necessary to 
point out that it had been committed for a distinct 
purpose and had been carried out in conjunction with 
an accomplished thief. 

“There is now only one more point which I wish to 
refer to, and that is the plea that the prisoner did not 
intend to steal the plate, but only to obtain money 
upon it to enable her and the partner in her guilt to 
back a horse for a race which they believed to be — ’ ’ 
his Lordship was about to say a certainty for him ; he 
stopped himself, however, in time — “to be, to be, 
which they believed him to be capable of winning. 
The race in question is, I think, called the Cesare- 
witch, and the name of the horse (lordship had lost 
three hundred on Ben Jonson), if my memory serves 
me right (here lordship fumbled amid papers), yes, 
the name is, as I thought, Ben Jonson. Now, the 


426 


ESTHER WATERS 


learned counsel for the defence suggested that, if 
the horse had won, the plate would have been 
redeemed and restored to its proper place in the 
pantry cupboards. This, I venture to point out, is a 
mere hypothesis. The money might have been again 
used for the purpose of gambling. I confess that I do 
not see why we should condone the prisoner’s offence 
because it was committed for the sake of obtaining 
money for gambling purposes. Indeed, it seems to 
me a reason for dealing heavily with the offence. The 
vice among the poorer classes is largely on the 
increase, and it seems to me that it is the duty of all in 
authority to condemn rather than to condone the 
evil, and to use every effort to stamp it out. For my 
part I fail to perceive any romantic element in the 
vice of gambling. It springs from the desire to obtain 
wealth without work, in other words, without pay- 
ment ; work, whether in the past or the present, is the 
natural payment for wealth, and any wealth that is 
obtained without work is in a measure a fraud com- 
mitted upon the community. Poverty, despair, idle- 
ness, and every other vice spring from gambling as 
naturally, and in the same profusion, as weeds from 
barren land. Drink, too, is gambling’s firmest ally.” 

At this moment a certain dryness in his Lordship’s 
throat reminded him of the pint of excellent claret 
that lordship always drank with his lunch, and the 
thought enabled lordship to roll out some excellent 
invective against the evils of beer and spirits. And 
lordship’s losses on the horse whose name he could 
hardly recall helped to a forcible illustration of the 
theory that drink and gambling mutually uphold and 
enforce each other. When the news that Ben Jonson 


ESTHER WATERS 


427 


had broken down at the bushes came in, lordship had 
drunk a magnum of champagne, and memory of this 
champagne inspired a telling description of the sink- 
ing feeling consequent on the loss of a wager, and the 
natural inclination of a man to turn to drink to coun- 
teract it. Drink and gambling are growing social 
evils ; in a great measure they are circumstantial, and 
only require absolute legislation to stamp them out 
almost entirely. This was not the first case of the 
kind that had come before him ; it was one of many, 
but it was a typical case, presenting all the familiar 
features of the vice of which he had therefore spoken 
at unusual length. Such cases were on the increase, 
and if they continued to increase, the powers of the 
law would have to be strengthened. But even as the 
law stood at present, betting-houses, public-houses in 
w'hich betting was carried on, were illegal, and it was 
the duty of the police to leave no means untried to 
unearth the offenders and bring them to justice. 
Lordship then glanced at the trembling woman in the 
dock. He condemned her to eighteen months’ hard 
labour, and gathering up the papers on the desk, 
dismissed her for ever from his mind. 

The court adjourned for lunch, and Esther and 
William edged their way out of the crowd of lawyers 
and their clerks. Neither spoke for some time. 
William was much exercised by his Lordship’s remarks 
on betting public-houses, and his advice that the police 
should increase their vigilance and leave no means 
untried to uproot that which was the curse and the 
ruin of the lower classes. It was the old story, one 
law for the rich, another for the poor. William did 
not seek to probe the question any further, this exam- 


428 


ESTHER WATERS 


ination seemed to him to have exhausted it ; and he 
remembered, after all that that hypocritical judge had 
said, how difficult it would be to escape detection. 
When he was caught he would be fined a hundred 
pounds, and probably lose his licence. What would he 
do then? He did not confide his fears to Esther. She 
had promised to say no more about the betting ; but 
she had not changed her opinion. She was one of 
those stubborn ones who would rather die than admit 
they were wrong. Then he wondered what she 
thought of his Lordship’s speech. Esther was think- 
ing of the thin gruel Sarah would have to eat, the 
plank bed on which she would have to sleep, and the 
miserable future that awaited her when she should be 
released from gaol. 

It was a bright winter’s day; the City folk were 
walking rapidly, tightly buttoned up in top-coats, and 
in a windy sky a flock of pigeons floated on straight- 
ened wings above the telegraph wires. Fleet Street 
was full of journalists going to luncheon-bars and 
various eating-houses. Their hurry and animation 
were remarkable, and Esther noticed how laggard 
was William’s walk by comparison, how his clothes 
hung loose about him, and that the sharp air was at 
work on his lungs, making him cough. She asked 
him to button himself up more closely. 

“Is not that old John’s wife?” Esther said. 

“Yes, that’s her,’’ said William. “She’d have seen 
us if that cove hadn’t given her the shilling. . . . 
Lord, I didn’t think they was as badly off as that. Did 
you ever see such rags? and that thick leg wrapped up 
in that awful stocking.” 

The morning had been full of sadness, and Mrs. 


ESTHER WATERS 


429 


Randal’s wandering rags had seemed to Esther like a 
foreboding. She grew frightened, as the cattle do in 
the fields when the sky darkens and the storm draws 
near. She suddenly remembered Mrs. Barfield, and 
she heard her telling her of the unhappiness that she 
had seen come from betting. Where was Mrs. Bar- 
field? Should she ever see her again? Mr. Barfield 
was dead. Miss May was forced to live abroad for the 
sake of her health ; all that time of long ago was over 
and done with. Some words that Mrs. Barfield had 
said came back to her; she had never quite understood 
them, but she had never quite forgotten them ; they 
seemed to chime through her life. “My girl,” Mrs. 
Barfield had said, “I am more than twenty years older 
than you, and I assure you that time has passed like a 
little dream ; life is nothing. We must think of what 
comes after. ’ ’ 

“Cheer up, old girl; eighteen months is a long 
while, but it ain’t a lifetime. She’ll get through it all 
right; and when she comes out we’ll try to see what 
we can do for her. ’ ’ 

William’s voice startled Esther from the depth of 
her dream; she looked at him vaguely, and he saw 
that she had been thinking of something different 
from what he had suspected. “I thought it was on 
account of Sarah that you was looking so sad.” 

“No,” she said, “I was not thinking of Sarah.” 

Then, taking it for granted that she was thinking of 
the wickedness of betting, his face darkened. It was 
aggravating to have a wife who was always troubling 
about things that couldn’t be helped. The first per- 
son they saw on entering the bar was old John; and 
he sat in the comer of the bar on a high stool, his grey, 


430 


ESTHER WATERS 


death-like face sunk in the old unstarched shirt collar. 
The thin, wrinkled throat was hid with the remains of 
a cravat ; it was passed twice round, and tied accord- 
ing to the fashion of fifty years ago. His boots were 
broken ; the trousers, a grey, dirty brown, were tom as 
high up as the ankle ; they had been mended and the 
patches hardly held together; the frock coat, green 
with age, with huge flaps over the pockets, frayed and 
tom, and many sizes too large, hung upon his starve- 
ling body. He seemed very feeble, and there was 
neither light nor expression in his glassy, watery 
eyes. 

“Eighteen months; a devil of a stiff sentence for a 
first offence,” said William. 

“I just dropped in. Charles said you’d sure to be 
back. You’re later than I expected.” 

“We stopped to have a bit of lunch. But you heard 
what I said. She got eighteen months. ’ ’ 

“Who got eighteen months?” 

“Sarah.” 

“Ah, Sarah. She was tried to-day. So she got 
eighteen months. ’ ’ 

“What’s the matter? Wake up; you’re half asleep. 
What will you have to drink?” 

“A glass of milk, if you’ve got such a thing.” 

“Glass of milk! What is it, old man— not feeling 
well?” 

“Not very well. The fact is, I’m starving.” 

“Starving! . . . Then come into the parlour and 
have something to eat. Why didn’t you say so 
before?” 

“I didn’t like to.” 

He led the old chap into the parlour and gave him a 


ESTHER WATERS 


431 


chair. “Didn’t like to tell me that you was as hard up 
as all that? What do you mean? You didn’t use to 
mind coming round for half a quid. ’ ’ 

“That was to back a horse; but I didn’t like coming 
to ask for food — excuse me, I’m too weak to speak 
much.” 

When old John had eaten, William asked how it was 
that things had gone so badly with him. 

“I’ve had terrible bad luck lately, can’t get on a 
winner nohow. I have backed ’orses that ’as been 
tried to win with two stone more on their backs than 
they had to carry, but just because I was on them they 
didn’t win. I don’t know how many half-crowns I’ve 
had on first favourites. Then I tried the second 
favourites, but they gave way to outsiders or the 
first favourites when I took to backing them. Stack’s 
tips and Ketley’s omens was all the same as far as I 
was concerned. It’s a poor business when you’re out 
of luck.’’ 

“It is giving way to fancy that does for the back- 
ers. The bookmaker’s advantage is that he bets on 
principle and not on fancy.” 

Old John told how unlucky he had been in business. 
He had been dismissed from his employment in the 
restaurant, not from any fault of his own, he had done 
his work well. “But they don’t like old waiters; 
there’s always a lot of young Germans about, and 
customers said I smelt bad. I suppose it was my 
clothes and want of convenience at home for keeping 
one’s self tidy. We’ve been so hard up to pay the 
three and sixpence rent which we’ve owed, that the 
black coat and waistkit had to go to the pawnshop, so 
even if I did meet with a job in the Exhibition places. 


432 


ESTHER WATERS 


where they ain’t so particular about yer age, I should 
not be able to take it. It’s terrible to think that I 
should have to come to this and after having worked 
round the table this forty years, fifty pounds a year and 
all found, and accustomed always to a big footman 
and page-boy under me. But there’s plenty more like 
me. It’s a poor game. You’re well out of it. I sup- 
pose the end of it will be the work’us. I’m pretty 
well wore out, and ” 

The old man’s voice died away. He made no 
allusion to his wife. His dislike to speak of her was 
part and parcel of his dislike to speak of his private 
affairs. The conversation then turned on Sarah ; the 
severity of the sentence was alluded to, and William 
spoke of how the judge’s remarks would put the police 
on the watch, and how difficult it would be to con- 
tinue his betting business without being found out. 

“There’s no doubt that it is most unfortunate,’’ 
said old John. “The only thing for you to do is to be 
very particular about yer introductions, and to refuse 
to bet with all who haven’t been properly introduced. ’ ’ 

“Or to give up betting altogether,’’ said Esther. 

“Give up betting altogether!” William answered, his 
face flushed, and he gradually worked himself into a 
passion. “I give you a good ’ome, don’t I? You 
want for nothing, do yer? Well, that being so, I think 
you might keep your nose out of your husband’s busi- 
ness. There’s plenty of prayer-meetings where you 
can go preaching if you like. ’ ’ 

William would have said a good deal more, but his 
anger brought on a fit of coughing. Esther looked 
at him contemptuously, and without answering she 
walked into the bar. 


ESTHER WATERS 


433 


“That’s a bad cough of yours,” said old John. 

“Yes,” said William, and he drank a little water to 
pass it off. “I must see the doctor about it. It makes 
one that irritable. The missis is in a pretty temper, 
ain’t she?” 

Old John did not reply; it was not his habit to 
notice domestic differences of opinion, especially those 
in which women had a share — queer cattle that he 
knew nothing about. The men talked for a long time 
regarding the danger the judge’s remarks had brought 
the house into; and they considered all the circum- 
stances of the case. Allusion was made to the 
injustice of the law, which allowed the rich and for- 
bade the poor to bet; anecdotes were related, but 
nothing they said threw new light on the matter in 
hand, and when old John rose to go William summed 
up the situation in these few words — 

“Bet I must, if I’m to get my living. The only 
thing I can do is to be careful not to bet with 
strangers. ’ ’ 

“I don’t see how they can do nothing to you if yer 
makes that yer principle and sticks to it,” said old 
John, and he put on the huge-rimmed, greasy hat, 
three sizes too large for him, looking in his square-cut 
tattered frock-coat as queer a specimen of humanity as 
you would be likely to meet with in a day’s walk. “If 
you makes that yer principle and sticks to it, ” thought 
William. 

But practice and principle are never reduced to 
perfect agreement. One is always marauding the^ 
other’s territory; nevertheless for several months prin- 
ciple distinctly held the upper hand ; William refused 
over and over again to make bets with comparative 


434 


ESTHER WATERS 


- strangers, but the day came when his principle 
relaxed, and he took the money of a man whom he 
thought was all right. It was done on the impulse of 
the moment, but the two half-crowns wrapped up in 
paper, with the name of the horse written on the 
paper, had hardly gone into the drawer than he felt 
that he had done wrong. He couldn’t tell why, but 
the feeling came across him that he had done wrong in 
taking the man’s money — a tall, clean-shaven man 
dressed in broadcloth. It was too late to draw back. 
The man had finished his beer and had left the bar, 
which in itself was suspicious. 

Three days afterwards, between twelve and one, 
just the busiest time, when the bar was full of 
people, there came a cry of “Police!” An effort was 
made to hide the betting plant ; a rush was made for 
the doors. It was all too late ; the sergeant and a con- 
stable ordered that no one was to leave the house; 
other police were outside. The names and addresses 
of all present were taken down; search was made, and 
the packets of money and the betting books were dis- 
covered. Then they all had to go to Marlborough 
Street. 


XLI. 

Next day the following account was given in most of 
the daily papers: — “Raid on abetting man in the West 
End. William Latch, 35, landlord of the ‘King’s 
Head, ’ Dean Street, Soho, was charged that he, being 
a licensed person, did keep and use his public-house 
for the purpose of betting with persons resorting 
thereto. Thomas William, 35, billiard marker, Gaul- 
den Street, Battersea; Arthur Henry Parsons, 25, 
waiter, Northumberland Street, Marylebone; Joseph 
Stack, 52, gentleman; Harold Journeyman, 45, gentle- 
man, High Street, Norwood; Philip Hutchinson, 
grocer, Bisey Road, Fulham; William Tann, piano- 
tuner, Standard Street, Soho; Charles Ketley, butter- 
man, Green Street, Soho; John Randal, Frith Street, 
Soho; Charles Muller, 44, tailor, Marylebone Lane; 
Arthur Bartram, stationer. East Street Buildings; 
William Burton, harness maker, Blue Lion Street, 
Bond Street, were charged with using the ‘King’s 
Head’ for the purpose of betting. Evidence was 
given by the police regarding the room upstairs, where 
a good deal of drinking went on after hours. There 
had been cases of disorder, and the magistrate unfor- 
tunately remembered that a servant-girl, who had 
pledged her master’s plate to obtain money to back a 
horse, had been arrested in the ‘King’s Head.’ Tak- 
ing these facts into consideration, it seemed to him that 
he could not do less than inflict a fine of j£ioo. The 

435 


436 


ESTHER WATERS 


men who were found in Latch’s house he ordered to 
be bound over. ’ ’ 

Who had first given information? That was the 
question. Old John sat smoking in his comer. 
Journeyman leaned against the yellow-painted par- 
tition, his legs thrust out. Stack stood square, his 
dark, crimson-tinted skin contrasting with sallow- 
faced little Ketley. 

“Don’t the omens throw no light on this ’eie 
matter?’’ said Journeyman. 

Ketley started from his reverie. 

“Ah,” said William, “if I only knew who the 
b was.” 

“Ain’t you got no idea of any sort?’’ said Stack. 

“There was a Salvation chap who came in some 
months ago and told my wife that the betting was cor- 
rupting the neighbourhood. That it would have to be 
put a stop to. It may ’ave been ’e.’’ 

“You don’t ask no one to bet with you. They does 
as they like.’’ 

“Does as they like! No one does that nowadays. 
There’s a temperance party, a purity party, and a 
hanti-gambling party, and what they is working for is 
just to stop folk from doing as they like.’* 

“That’s it,’’ said Journeyman. 

Stack raised his glass to his lips and said, “Here’s 
luck. ’ ’ 

“There’s not much of that about,’’ said William. 
“We seem to be losing all round. I’d like to know 
where the money goes. I think it is the ’ouse ; it’s 
gone unlucky, and I’m thinking of clearing out.’’ 

“We may live in a ’ouse a long while before we 
find what its luck really is,’’ said Ketley. “I’ve been 


ESTHER WATERS 


437 


in my old 'ouse these twenty years, and it ain’t noth- 
ing like what I thought it.” 

“You are that superstitious, ” said Journeyman. “If 
there was anything the matter with the ’ouse you’d ’ve 
know’d it before now.” 

“Ain’t you doing the trade you was?” said Stack. 

“No, my butter and egg trade have fallen dread- 
ful lately. ” 

The conversation paused. It was Stack who broke 
the silence. 

“Do you intend to do no more betting ’ere?” he 
asked. 

“What, after being fined ;^ioo? You ’eard the 
way he went on about Sarah, and all on account of her 
being took here. I think he might have left Sarah 
out.” 

“It warn’t for betting she took the plate,” said 
Journeyman; “it was ’cause her chap said if she did 
he’d marry her.” 

“I wonder you ever left the course,” said Stack. 

“It was on account of my ’ealth. I caught a dread- 
ful cold at Kempton, standing about in the mud. I’ve 
never quite got over that cold. ’ ’ 

“I remember,” said Ketley; “you couldn’t speak 
above a whisper for two months.” 

“Two months! more like three. ” 

“Fourteen weeks,” said Esther. 

She was in favour of disposing of the house and 
going to live in the country But it was soon found 
that the conviction for keeping a betting-house had 
spoiled their chance of an advantageous sale. If, 
however, the licence were renewed next year, and the 
business did not in the meantime decline, they would 


438 


ESTHER WATERS 


be in a position to obtain better terms. So all their 
energies should be devoted to the improvement of 
their business. Esther engaged another servant, and 
she provided the best meat and vegetables that money 
could buy; William ordered beer and spirits of a 
quality that could be procured nowhere else in the 
neighbourhood ; but all to no purpose. As soon as it 
became known that it was no longer possible to pass 
half a crown or a shilling wrapped up in a piece of 
paper across the bar, their custom began to decline. 

At last William could stand it no longer, and he 
obtained his wife’s permission to once more begin 
book-making on the course. His health had begun to 
improve with the spring weather, and there was no 
use keeping him at home eating his heart out with 
vexation because they were doing no business. So 
did Esther reason, and it reminded her of old times 
when he came back with his race-glasses slung round 
his shoulder. “Favourites all beaten to-day; what 
have you got for me to eat, old girl?’’ Esther forgot 
her dislike of racing in the joy of seeing her husband 
happy, if he’d only pick up a bit of flesh; but he 
seemed to get thinner and thinner, and his food didn’t 
seem to do him any good. 

One day he came home cornplaining that the ring 
was six inches of soft mud ; he was wet to the skin, 
and he sat shivering the whole evening, with the 
sensation of a long illness upon him. He was laid up 
for several weeks, and his voice seemed as if it would 
never return to him again. There was little or no 
occupation for him in the bar; and instead of laying he 
began to take the odds. He backed a few winners, it 
is true ; but they could not rely on that. Most of their 


ESTHER WATERS 


439 


trade had slipped from them, so it did not much 
matter to them if they were found out. He might as 
well be hung for an old sheep as a lamb, and surrep- 
titiously at first, and then more openly, he began to 
take money across the bar, and with every shilling he 
took for a bet another shilling was spent in drink. 
Custom came back in ripples, and then in stronger 
waver, until once again the bar of the “King’s Head” 
was full to overflowing. Another conviction meant 
ruin, but they must risk it, so said William; and 
Esther, like a good wife, acquiesced in her husband’s 
decision. But he took money only from those whom 
he was quite sure of. He required an introduction, 
and was careful to make inquiries concerning every 
new backer. “In this way,’’ he said to Ketley, “so 
long as one is content to bet on a small scale, I think 
it can be kept dark ; but if you try to extend your con- 
nection you’re bound to come across a wrong ’un 
sooner or later. It was that room upstairs that did for 
me.’’ 

“I never did think much of that room upstairs,’’ 
said Ketley. “There was a something about it that I 
didn’t like. Be sure you never bet in that jug and 
bottle bar, whatever you do. There’s just the same 
look there as in the room upstairs. Haven’t you 
noticed it?’’ 

“Can’t say I ’ave, nor am I sure that I know exactly 
what you mean. ’ ’ 

“If you don’t see it, you don’t see it; but it’s plain 
enough to me, and don’t you bet with nobody standing 
in that bar. I wouldn’t go in there for a sovereign.’’ 

William laughed. He thought at first that Ketley 
was joking, but he soon saw that Ketley regarded the 


440 


ESTHER WATERS 


jug and bottle entrance with real suspicion. When 
pressed to explain, he told Journeyman that it wasn’t 
that he was afraid of the place, he merely didn’t like it. 
“There’s some places that you likes better than others, 
ain’t they?” Journeyman was obliged to confess 
that there were. 

“Well, then, that’s one of the places I don’t like. 
Don’t you hear a voice talking there, a soft, low voice, 
with a bit of a jeer in it?” 

On another occasion he shaded his eyes and peered 
curiously into the left-hand corner. 

“What are you looking at?” asked Journeyman. 

“At nothing that you can see,” Ketley answered; 
and he drank his whisky as if lost in consideration of 
grave and difficult things. A few weeks later they 
noticed that he always got as far from the jug and 
bottle entrance as possible, and he was afflicted with a 
long story concerning a danger that awaited him. 
“He’s waiting; but nothing will happen if I don’t go 
in there. He can’t follow me; he is waiting forme 
to go to him. ’ ’ 

“Then keep out of his way,” said Journeyman. 
“You might ask your bloody friend if he can tell us 
anything about the Leger. ’ ’ 

“I’m trying to keep out of his way, but he’s always 
watching and a-beckoning of me. ’ ’ 

“Can you see him now?” asked Stack. 

“Yes,” said Ketley; “he’s a-sitting there, and he 
seems to say that if I don’t come to him worse will 
happen. ’ ’ 

“Don’t say nothing to him,” William whispered to 
Journeyman. “I don’t think he’s quite right in ’is 
*ead; he’s been losing a lot lately.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


441 


One day Journeyman was surprised to see Ketley 
sitting quite composedly in the jug and bottle bar. 

“He got me at last; I had to go, the whispering got 
so loud in my head as I was a-coming down the street. 
I tried to get out into the middle of the street, but 
a drunken chap pushed me across the pavement, 
and he was at the door waiting, and he said, ‘Now, 
you’d better come in ; you know what will happen if 
you don’t.’’’ 

“Don’t talk rot, old pal; come round and have a 
drink with us. ’ ’ 

“I can’t just at present — I may later on.” 

“What do he mean?’’ said Stack. 

“Lord, I don’t know,’’ said Journeyman. “It’s only 
his wandering talk. ’ ’ 

They tried to discuss the chances of the various 
horses they were interested in, but they could not 
detach their thoughts from Ketley, and their eyes 
went back to the queer little sallow-faced man who sat 
on a high stool in the adjoining bar paring his nails. 

They felt something was going to happen, and before 
they could say the word he had plunged the knife deep 
into his neck, and had fallen heavily on the floor. 
William vaulted over the counter. As he did so he 
felt something break in his throat, and when Stack and 
Journeyman came to his assistance he was almost as 
white as the corpse at his feet. Blood flowed from his 
mouth and from Ketley ’s neck in a deep stream that 
swelled into a great pool and thickened on the sawdust. 

“It was jumping over that bar,’’ William replied, 
faintly. 

“I’ll see to my husband,’’ said Esther. 

A rush of blood cut short his words, and, leaning on 


442 


ESTHER WATERS 


his wife, he walked feebly round into the back parlour. 
Esther rang the bell violently. 

“Go round at once to Doctor Green,” she said; “and 
if he isn’t in inquire which is the nearest. Don’t come 
back without a doctor. ’ ’ 

William had broken a small blood-vessel, and the 
doctor said he would have to be very careful for a long 
time. It was likely to prove a long case. But Ketley 
had severed the jugular at one swift, keen stroke, and 
had died almost instantly. Of course there was an 
inquest, and the coroner asked many questions regard- 
ing the habits of the deceased. Mrs. Ketley was one 
of the witnesses called, and she deposed that he had 
lost a great deal of money lately in betting, and that 
he went to the “King’s Head” for the purpose of bet- 
ting. The police deposed that the landlord of the 
“King’s Head” had been fined a hundred pounds for 
keeping a betting-house, and the foreman of the jury 
remarked that betting-houses were the ruin of the 
poorer classes, and that they ought to be put a stop to. 
The coroner added that such places as the “King’s 
Head” should not be licensed. That was the simplest 
and most effectual way of dealing with the nuisance. 

“There never was no luck about this house,” said 
William, “and what there was has left us; in three 
months* time we shall be turned out of it neck and 
crop. Another conviction would mean a fine of a 
couple of hundred, or most like three months, and that 
would just about be the end of me. ’ ’ 

“They’ll never license us again,” said Esther, “and 
the boy at school and doing so well. ’ ’ 

“I’m sorry, Esther, to have brought this trouble on 
you. We must do the best we can, get the best price 


ESTHER WATERS 


443 


we can for the ’ouse. I may be lucky enough to back 
a few winners. That’s all there is to be said — the 
*ouse was always an unlucky one. I hate the place, 
and shall be glad to get out of it. ’ ’ 

Esther sighed. She didn’t like to hear the house 
spoken ill of, and after so many years it did seem a 
shame. 


XLII. 


Esther kept William within doors during the winter 
months. If his health did not improve it got no worse, 
and she had begun to hope that the breakage of the 
blood-vessel did not mean lung disease. But the harsh 
winds of spring did not suit him, and there was busi- 
ness with his lawyer to which he was obliged to attend. 
A determined set was going to be made against the 
renewal of his licence, and he was determined to defeat 
his opponents. Counsel was instructed, and a great 
deal of money was spent on the case. But the licence 
was nevertheless refused, and the north-east wind did 
not cease to rattle; it seemed resolved on William’s 
death, and with a sick husband on her hands, and all 
the money they had invested in the house irreparably 
lost, Esther began to make preparations for moving. 

William had proved a kind husband, and in the seven 
years she had spent in the “King’s Head” there had 
been some enjoyment of life. She couldn’t say that 
she had been unhappy. She had always disapproved 
of the betting. They had tried to do without it. 
There was a great deal in life which one couldn’t 
approve of. But Ketley had never been very right in 
his head, and Sarah’s misfortune had had very little to 
do with the “King’s Head.” They had all tried to 
keep her from that man ; it was her own fault. There 
were worse places than the “King’s Head.” It wasn’t 
for her to abuse it. She had lived there seven years; 
she had seen her boy growing up — he was almost a 
444 


ESTHER WATERS 


445 


young man now, and had had the best education. That 
much* good the “King’s Head’’ had done. But perhaps 
it was no longer suited to William’s health. The bet- 
ting, she was tired thinking about that ; and that con- 
stant nipping, it was impossible for him to keep from 
it with every one asking him to drink with them. A 
look of fear and distress passed across her face, and she 
stopped for a moment. . . . 

She was rolling up a pair of curtains. She did not 
know how they were to live, that was the worst of it. 
If they only had back the money they had sunk in the 
house she would not so much mind. That was what 
was so hard to bear; all that money lost, just as if they 
had thrown it into the river. Seven years of hard 
work — for she had worked hard — and nothing to show 
for it. If she had been doing the grand lady all the 
time it would have been no worse. Horses had won 
and horses had lost — a great deal of trouble and fuss 
and nothing to show for it. That was what stuck in 
her throat. Nothing to show for it. She looked 
round the dismantled walls, and descended the vacant 
staircase. She would never serve another pint of beer 
in that bar. What a strong, big fellow he was when 
she first went to live with him ! He was sadly changed. 
Would she ever see him strong and well again? She 
remembered he had told her that he was worth nearly 
;^3,ooo. She hadn’t brought him luck. He wasn’t 
worth anything like that to-day. 

“How much have we in the bank, dear?’’ 

“A bit over six hundred pounds. I was reckoning 
of it up yesterday. But what do you want to know 
for? To remind me that I’ve been losing. Well, I 
have been losing. I hope you’re satisfied.” 


446 


ESTHER WATERS 


“I wasn’t thinking of such a thing.” 

“Yes, you was, there’s no use saying you wasn’t. It 
ain’t my fault if the ’orses don’t win; I do the best I 
can. ’ ’ 

She did not answer him. Then he said, “It’s my 
’ealth that makes me irritable, dear; you aren’t angry, 
are you?” 

“No, dear, I know you don’t mean it, and I don’t 
pay no attention to it.” She spoke so gently that he 
looked at her surprised, for he remembered her quick 
temper, and he said, “You’re the best wife a man ever 
had.” 

“No, I’m not. Bill, but I tries to do my best.” 

The spring was the harshest ever known, and his 
cough grew worse and the blood-spitting returned. 
Esther grew seriously alarmed. Their doctor spoke of 
Brompton Hospital, and she insisted on his going there 
to be examined. William would not have her come 
with him ; and she did not press the point, fearing to 
irritate him, but sat at home waiting anxiously for him 
to return, hoping against hope, for their doctor had 
told her that he feared very long trouble. And she 
could tell from his face and manner that he had bad 
news for her. All her strength left her, but she con- 
quered her weakness and said — 

“Now, tell me what they said. I’ve a right to know; 
I want to know. ’ ’ 

“They said it was consumption.” 

“Oh, did they say that?” 

“Yes, but that don’t mean that I’m going to die. 
They said they hoped they could patch me up ; people 
often live for years with only half a lung, and it is 
only the left one that’s gone.” 


ESTHER WATERS 


447 


He coughed slightly and wiped the blood from his 
lips. Esther was quite overcome. 

“Now, don’t look like that,’’ he said, “or I shall 
fancy I’m going to die to-morrow.’’ 

“They said they thought that they could patch 
you up?’’ 

“Yes; they said I might go on a long while yet, but 
that I would never be the man I was. ’ ’ 

This was so obvious that she could not check a look 
of pity. 

“If you’re going to look at me like that I’d sooner 
go into the hospital at once. It ain’t the cheerfulest 
of places, but it will be better than here. ’ ’ 

“I’m sorry it was consumption. But if they said 
they could patch you up, it will be all right. It was a 
great deal for them to say.’’ 

Her duty was to overcome her grief and speak as if 
the doctors had told him that there was nothing the 
matter that a little careful nursing would fail to put 
right. William had faith in the warm weather, and 
she resolved to put her trust in it. It was hard to see 
him wasting away before her eyes and keep cheerful 
looks in her face and an accent of cheerfulness in her 
voice. The sunshine which had come at last seemed 
to suck up all the life that was in him ; he grew paler, 
and withered like a plant. Then ill-luck seemed to 
have joined in the hunt; he could not “touch’’ a win- 
ner, and their fortune drained away with his life. 
Favourites and outsiders, it mattered not ; whatever he 
backed lost; and Esther dreaded the cry “Win-ner, 
all the win-ner!’’ He sat on the little balcony in the 
sunny evenings looking down the back street for the 
boy to appear with the “special. ’’ Then she had to go 


448 


ESTHER WATERS 


and fetch the paper. On the rare occasions when he 
won, the spectacle was even more painful. He bright- 
ened up, his thin arm and hand moved nervously, and 
he began to make projects and indulge in hopes which 
she knew were vain. 

She insisted, however, on his taking regularly the 
medicine they gave him at the hospital, and this was 
difficult to do. For his irritability increased in meas- 
ure as he perceived the medicine was doing him no 
good ; he found fault with the doctors, railed against 
them unjustly, and all the while the little cough con- 
tinued, and the blood-spitting returned at the end of 
cruel intervals, when he had begun to hope that at 
least that trouble was done with. One morning he 
told his wife that he was going to ask the doctors to 
examine him again. They had spoken of patching up ; 
but he wanted to know whether he was going to live 
or die. There was a certain relief in hearing him 
speak so plainly ; she had had enough of the torture of 
hope, and would like to know the worst. He liked 
better to go to the hospital alone, but she felt that she 
could not sit at home counting the minutes for him to 
return, and begged to be allowed to go with him. To 
her surprise, he offered no opposition. She had 
expected that her request would bring about quite a 
little scene, but he had taken it so much as a matter of 
course that she should accompany him that she was 
doubly glad that she had proposed to go with him ; if 
she hadn’t he might have accused her of neglecting 
him. She put on her hat; the day was too hot for a 
jacket; it was the beginning of August; the town was 
deserted, and the streets looked as if they were about 
to evaporate or lie down exhausted, and the poor, dry, 


ESTHER WATERS 


449 


dusty air that remained after the season was too poor 
even for Esther’s healthy lungs; it made William 
cough, and she hoped the doctors would order him to 
the seaside. 

From the top of their omnibus they could see right 
across the plateau of the Green Park, dry and colour- 
less like a desert; as they descended the hill they 
noticed that autumn was already busy in the foliage ; 
lower down the dells were full of fallen leaves. At 
Hyde Park Corner the blown dust whirled about the 
hill- top; all along St. George’s Place glimpses of the 
empty Park appeared through the railings. The wide 
pavements, the Brompton Road, and a semi-detached 
public-house at the cross-roads, announced suburban 
London to the Londoner. 

“You see,’’ said William, “where them trees are, 
where the road turns ofE to the left. That ’ouse is the 
‘Bell and Horns.’ That’s the sort of house I should 
like to see you in. ’ ’ 

“It’s a pity we didn’t buy it when we had the 
money. ’ ’ 

“Buy it! That ’ouse is worth ten thousand pounds 
if it’s worth a penny.’’ 

“I was once in a situation not far from here. I like 
the Fulham Road; it’s like a long village street, ain’t 
it?’’ 

Her first service was with Mrs. Dunbar, in Sydney 
Street, and she remembered the square church tower 
at the Chelsea end ; a little further on there was the 
Vestry Hall in the King’s Road, and then Oakley 
Street on the left, leading down to Battersea. Mrs. 
Dunbar used to go to some gardens at the end of the 
King’s Road. Cremorne Gardens, that was the name; 


450 


ESTHER WATERS 


there used to be fire-works there, and she often spent 
the evening at the back window watching the rockets 
go up. That was just before Lady Elwin had got her 
the situation as kitchen-maid at Woodview. She 
remembered the very shops — there was Palmer’s the 
butterman, and there was Hyde’s the grocer’s. Every- 
thing was just as she had left it. How many years 
ago? Fifteen or sixteen. So enwrapped was she in 
memories that William had to touch her. “Here we 
are,’’ he said; “don’t you remember the place?” 

She remembered very well that great red brick build- 
ing, a centrepiece with two wings, surrounded by high 
iron railings lined with gloomy shrubs. The long 
straight walks, the dismal trees arow, where pale-faced 
men walked or rested feebly, had impressed themselves 
on her young mind — thin, patient men, pacing their 
sepulchre. She had wondered who they were, if they 
would get well; and then, quick with sensation of 
lingering death, she had hurried away on her errands. 
The low wooden yellow-painted gates were unchanged. 
She had never before seen them open, and it was new 
to her to see the gardens filled with bright sunshine 
and numerous visitors. There were flowers in the 
beds, and the trees were beautiful in their leafage. A 
little yellow was creeping through, and from time to 
time a leaf fell exhausted from the branches. 

William, who was already familiar with the cus- 
tom of the place, nodded to the porter and was let pass 
without question. He did not turn to the principal 
entrance in the middle of the building, but went 
towards a side entrance. The house physician was 
standing near it talking with a young man whom 
Esther recognised as Mr. Alden. The thought that 


ESTHER WATERS 


45 i 

he, too, might be dying of consumption crossed her 
mind, but his appearance and his healthy, hearty laugh 
reassured her. A stout, common girl, healthy too, 
came out of the building with a child, a little thing of 
twelve or thirteen, with death in her face. Mr. Alden 
stopped her, and in his cheerful, kind manner hoped 
the little one was better. She answered that she was. 
The doctor bade him good-bye and beckoned William 
and Esther to follow him. Esther would have liked 
to have spoken to Mr. Alden. But he did not see her, 
and she followed her husband, who was talking with 
the doctor, through the doorway into a long passage. 
At the end of the passage there were a number of girls 
in print dresses. The gaiety of the dresses led Esther 
to think that they must be visitors. But the little 
cough warned her that death was amongst them. As 
she went past she caught sight of a wasted form in a 
bath-chair. The thin hands were laid on the knees, 
on a little handkerchief, and there were spots on the 
whiteness deeper than the colour of the dress. They 
passed down another passage, meeting a sister on their 
way ; pretty and discreet she was in her black dress 
and veil, and she raised her eyes, glancing affection- 
ately at the young doctor. No doubt they loved each 
other. The eternal love-story among so much death ! 

Esther wished to be present at the examination, 
but a sudden whim made William say that he would 
prefer to be alone with the doctor, and she returned 
to the gardens. Mr. Alden had not yet gone. He 
stood with his back turned to her. The little girl she 
had seen him speaking to was sitting on a bench under 
the trees; she held in her hands a skein of yellow 
worsted which her companion was winding into a ball. 


452 


ESTHER WATERS 


Two other young women were with them and all four 
were smiling and whispering and looking towards Mr. 
Alden. They evidently sought to attract his attention, 
and wished him to come and speak to them. Just the 
natural desire of women to please, and moved by the 
pathos of this poor coquetting, he went to them, and 
Esther could see that they all wanted to talk to him. 
She too would have liked to have spoken to him ; he 
was an old friend. And she walked up the grounds, 
intending to pass by him as she walked back. His 
back was still turned to her, and they were all so 
interested that they gave no heed to anything else. One 
of the young women had an exceedingly pretty face. 
A small oval, perfectly snow-white, and large blue 
eyes shaded with long dark lashes; a little aquiline 
nose; and Esther heard her say, “I should be well 
enough if it wasn’t for the cough. It isn’t no better 
since ’ ’ The cough interrupted the end of the sen- 
tence, and affecting to misunderstand her, Mr. Alden 
said — 

“No better than it was a week ago. ’’ 

“A week ago!’’ said the poor girl. “It is no better 
since Christmas.” 

There was surprise in her voice, and the pity of it 
took Mr. Alden in the throat, and it was with difficulty 
that he answered that “he hoped that the present fine 
weather would enable her to get well. Such weather 
as this,” he said, “is as good as going abroad.” 

This assertion was disputed. One of the women had 
been to Australia for her health, and the story of travel 
was interspersed by the little coughs, terrible in their 
apparent insignificance. But it was Mr. Alden that the 
others wished to hear speak ; they knew all about their 


ESTHER WATERS 


453 


companion's trip to Australia, and in their impatience 
their eyes went towards Esther. So Mr. Alden became 
aware of a new presence, and he turned. 

“What! is it you, Esther?" 

“Yes, sir." 

“But there doesn’t seem much the matter with you. 
You’re all right." 

“Yes, I’m all right, sir; it’s my husband." 

They walked a few yards up the path. 

‘ ‘ Y our husband ! I’m very sorry. ’ ' 

“He’s been an out-door patient for some time; he’s 
being examined by the doctors now.” 

“Whom did you marry, Esther?" 

“William Latch, a betting man, sir." 

“You married a betting man, Esther? How curi- 
ously things do work out! I remember you were 
engaged to a pious young man, the stationer’s fore- 
man. That was when you were with Miss Rice ; you 
know, I suppose, that she’s dead." 

“No, sir, I didn’t know it. I’ve had so much trouble 
lately that I’ve not been to see her for nearly two 
years. When did she die, sir?’’ 

“About two months ago. So you married a betting 
man! Miss Rice did say something about it, but I 
don’t think I understood that he was a betting man ; 
I thought he was a publican." 

“So he was, sir. We lost our licence through the 
betting." 

“You say he’s being examined by the doctor. Is it 
a bad case?" 

“I’m afraid it is, sir." 

They walked on in silence until they reached the 
gate. 


454 


ESTHER WATERS 


“To me this place is infinitely pathetic. That little 
cough never silent for long. Did you hear that poor 
girl say with surprise that her cough is no better than 
it was last Christmas?” 

“Yes, sir. Poor girl, I don’t think she’s long for 
this world. ’ ’ 

“But tell me about your husband, Esther,” he said, 
and his face filled with an expression of true sympathy. 
“I’m a subscriber, and if your husband would like to 
become an in-door patient, I hope you’ll let me know.” 

“Thank you, sir; you was always the kindest, but 
there’s no reason why I should trouble you. Some 
friends of ours have already recommended him, and it 
only rests with himself to remain out or go in. ’ ’ 

He pulled out his watch and said, “I am sorry to 
have met you in such sad circumstances, but I’m glad 
to have seen you. It must be seven years or more 
since you left Miss Rice. You haven’t changed much; 
you keep your good looks. ’ ’ 

“Oh, sir.” 

He laughed at her embarrassment and walked across 
the road hailing a hansom, just as he used to in old 
times when he came to see Miss Rice. The memory 
of those days came back upon her. It was strange to 
meet him again after so many years. She felt she had 
seen him now for the last time. But it was foolish 
and wicked, too, to think of such things ; her husband 
dying. . . . But she couldn’t help it; he reminded 
her of so much of what was past and gone. A moment 
after she dashed these personal tears aside and walked 
open-hearted to meet William. What had the doctor 
said? She must know the truth. If she was to lose 
him she would lose everything. No, not everything; 


ESTHER WATERS 


455 


her boy would still remain to her, and she felt that, 
after all, her boy was what was most real to her in life. 
These thoughts had passed through her mind before 
William had had time to answer her question. 

“He said the left lung was gone, that I’d never be 
able to stand another winter in England. He said I 
must go to Egypt. ’ ’ 

“Egypt,” she repeated. “Is that very far from 
here?” 

“What matter how far it is! If I can’t live in Eng- 
land I must go where I can live. ” 

“Don’t be cross, dear. I know it’s your health that 
makes you that irritable, but it’s hard to bear at 
times. ’ ’ 

“You won’t care to go to Egypt with me.” 

“How can you think that, Bill? Have I ever refused 
you anything?” 

“Quite right, old girl. I’m sorry. I know you’d do 
anything for me. I’ve always said so, haven’t I? It’s 
this cough that makes me sharp tempered and fretful. 
I shall be different when I get to Egypt.” 

“When do we start?” 

“If we get away by the end of October it will be all 
right. It will cost a lot of money; the journey is 
expensive, and we shall have to stop there six months. 
I couldn’t think of coming home before the end of 
April.” 

Esther did not answer. They walked some yards in 
silence. Then he said — 

“I’ve been very unlucky lately; there isn’t much 
over a hundred pounds in the bank. 

“How much shall we want?” 

“Three or four hundred pounds at least. We won’t 


45 ^ 


ESTHER WATERS 


take the boy with us, we couldn’t afford that; but I 
should like to pay a couple of quarters in advance.’ ’ 

“That won’t be much.’’ 

“Not if I have any luck. The luck must turn, and 
I have some splendid information about the Great 
Ebor and the Yorkshire Stakes. Stack knows of a 
horse or two that’s being kept for Sandown. Unfor- 
tunately there is not much doing in August. I must 
try to make up the money: it’s a matter of life and 
death.” 

It was for his very life that her husband was now 
gambling on the race-course, and a sensation of very 
great wickedness came up in her mind, but she stifled 
it instantly. William had noticed the look of fear that 
appeared in her eyes, and he said — 

“It’s my last chance. I can’t get the money any 
other way; and I don’t want to die yet awhile. I 
haven’t been as good to you as I’d like, and I want to 
do something for the boy, you know. ’ ’ 

He had been told not to remain out after sundown, 
but he was resolved to leave no stone unturned in his 
search for information, and often he returned home as 
late as nine and ten o’clock at night coughing — Esther 
could hear him all up the street. He came in ready 
to drop with fatigue, his pockets filled with sporting 
papers, and these he studied, spreading them on the 
table under the lamp, while Esther sat striving to do 
some needlework. It often dropped out of her 
hands, and her eyes filled with tears. But she took 
care that he should not see these tears ; she did not 
wish to distress him unnecessarily. Poor chap! he 
had enough to put up with as it was. Sometimes he 
read out the horses’ names and asked her which she 


ESTHER WATERS 


457 


thought would win, which seemed to her a likely 
name. But she begged of him not to ask her ; they 
had many quarrels on this subject, but in the end he 
understood that it was not fair to ask her. Some- 
times Stack and Journeyman came in, and they argued 
about weights and distances, until midnight; old John 
came to see them, and every day he had heard some new 
tip. It often rose to Esther’s lips to tell William to 
back his fancy and have done with it ; she could see 
that these discussions only fatigued him, that he was 
no nearer to the truth now than he was a fortnight 
ago. Meanwhile the horse he had thought of backing 
had gone up in the betting. But he said that he must 
be very careful. They had only a hundred pounds 
left ; he must be careful not to risk this money fool- 
ishly — it was his very life-blood. If he were to lose all 
this money, he wouldn’t only sign his own death war- 
rant, \)Vit also hers. He might linger on a long while — 
there was no knowing, but he would never be able to 
do any work, that was certain (unless he went out to 
Egypt) ; the doctor had said so, and then it would be 
she who would have to support him. And if God were 
merciful enough to take him off at once he would leave 
her in a worse plight than he had found her in, and 
the boy growing up ! Oh, it was terrible ! He buried 
his face in his hands, and seemed quite overcome. 
Then the cough would take him, and for a few minutes 
he could only think of himself. Esther gave him a 
little milk to drink, and he said— 

“There’s a hundred pounds left, Esther. It isn’t 
much, but it’s something. I don’t believe that there’s 
much use in my going to Egypt. I shall never get 
well. It is better that I should pitch myself into 


45 ^ 


ESTHER WATERS 


the river. That would be the least selfish way out 
of it. ’ ’ 

“William, I will not have you talk in that way,” 
Esther said, laying down her work and going over to 
him. “If you was to do such a thing I should never 
forgive you. I could never think the same of you.” 

“All right, old girl, don’t be frightened. I’ve been 
thinking too much about them horses, and am a bit 
depressed. I daresay it will come out all right. I 
think that Mahomet is sure to win the Great Ebor, 
don’t you?” 

“I don’t think there’s no better judge than yourself. 
They all say if he don’t fall lame that he’s bound to 
win. ’ ’ 

“Then Mahomet shall carry my money. I’ll back 
him to-morrow.” 

Now that he had made up his mind what horse to 
back his spirits revived. He was able to dismiss the 
subject from his mind, and they talked of other things, 
of their son, and they laid projects for his welfare. 
But on the day of the race, from early morning, Wil- 
liam could barely contain himself. Usually he took his 
winnings and losings very quietly. When he had been 
especially unlucky he swore a bit, but Esther had 
never seen any great excitement before a race was 
run. The issues of this race were extraordinary, and 
it was heart-breaking to see him suffer ; he could not 
remain still a moment. A prey to all the terrors of 
hope, exhausted with anticipation, he rested himself 
against the sideboard and wiped drops of sweat from 
his forehead. A broiling sunlight infested their 
window-panes, the room grew oven-like, and he was 
obliged at last to go into the back parlour and lie down. 


ESTHER WATERS 


459 


He lay there in his shirt sleeves quite exhausted, 
hardly able to breathe ; the arm once so strong and 
healthy was shrunken to a little nothing. He seemed 
quite bloodless, and looking at him Esther could hardly 
hope that any climate would restore him to health. 
He just asked her what the time was, and said, “The 
race is being run now. ’ ’ A few minutes after he said, 
“I think Mahomet has won. I fancied I saw him get 
first past the post. ’ ’ He spoke as if he were sure, and 
said nothing about the evening paper. If he were dis- 
appointed, Esther felt that it would kill him, and she 
knelt down by the bedside and prayed that God would 
allow the horse to win. It meant her husband’s life, 
that was all she knew. Oh, that the horse might win ! 
Presently he said, “There’s no use praying, I feel sure 
it is all right. Go into the next room, stand on the 
balcony so that you may see the boy coming along.” 

A pale yellow sky rose behind the brick neighbour- 
hood, and with agonised soul the woman viewed its 
plausive serenity. There seemed to be hope in its 
quietness. At that moment the cry came up, “Win- 
ner, Win-ner.” It came from the north, from the 
east, and now from the west. Three boys were shout- 
ing forth the news simultaneously. Ah, if it should 
prove bad news ! But somehow she too felt that the 
news was good. She ran to meet the boy. She had a 
half-penny ready in her hand ; he fumbled, striving to 
detach a single paper from the quire under his arm. 
Seeing her impatience, he said, “Mahomet’s won.” 
Then the pavement seemed to slide beneath her feet, 
and the setting sun she could hardly see, so full was 
her heart, so burdened with the happiness that she was 
bringing to the poor sick fellow who lay in his shirt 


460 


ESTHER WATERS 


sleeves on the bed in the back room. “It’s all right,” 
she said. ‘‘I thought so too ; it seemed like it. ” His 
face flushed, life seemed to come back. He sat up 
and took the paper from her. ‘ ‘ There, ’ ’ he said, ‘ ‘ I ’ ve 
got my place-money, too. I hope Stack and Journey- 
man come in to-night. I’d like to have a chat about 
this. Come, give me a kiss, dear. I’m not going to 
die, after all. It isn’t a pleasant thing to think that 
you must die, that there’s no hope for you, that you 
must go under ground. ’ ’ 

The next thing to do was to pick the winner of the 
Yorkshire Handicap. In this he was not successful, 
but he backed several winners at Sandown Park, and 
at the close of the week had made nearly enough to 
take him to Egypt. 

The Doncaster week, however, proved disastrous. 
He lost most of his winnings, and had to look forward 
to retrieving his fortunes at Newmarket. “The 
worst of it is, if I don’t make up the money by 
October, it will be no use. They say the November 
fogs will polish me off. ’ ’ 

Between Doncaster and Newmarket he lost a bet, 
and this bet carried him back into despondency. He 
felt it was no use struggling against fate. Better 
remain in London and be taken away at the end of 
November or December; he couldn’t last much longer 
than that. This would allow him to leave Esther at 
least fifty pounds to go on with. The boy would soon 
be able to earn money. It would be better so. No 
use wasting all this money for the sake of his health, 
which wasn’t worth two-pence-three-farthings. It 
was like throwing sovereigns after farthings. He 
didn’t want to do any betting; he was as hollow as a 


ESTHER WATERS 


461 


shell inside, he could feel it. Egypt could do nothing 
for him, and as he had to go, better sooner than later. 
Esther argued with him. What should she have to 
live for if he was taken from her? The doctors had 
said that Egypt might set him right. She didn’t know 
much about such things, but she had always heard that 
it was extraordinary how people got cured out there. 

“That’s true,” he said. “I’ve heard that people 
who couldn’t live a week in England, who haven’t 
the length of your finger of lung left, can go on all 
right out there. I might get something to do out there, 
and the boy might come out after us. ’ ’ 

“That’s the way I like to hear you talk. Who 
knows, at Newmarket we might have luck! Just one 
big bet, a winner at fifty to one, that’s all we want.” 

“That’s just what has been passing in my mind. 
I’ve got particular information about the Cesarewitch 
and Cambridgeshire. I could get the price you speak 
of — fifty to one against the two. Matchbox and 
Chasuble — the double event, you know. I’m 
inclined to go it. It’s my last chance. “ 


XLIII. 


When Matchbox galloped home the winner of the 
Cesarewitch by five lengths, William was lying in his 
bed, seemingly at death’s door. He had remained out 
late one evening, had caught cold, and his mouth was 
constantly filled with blood. He was much worse, and 
could hardly take notice of the good news. When he 
revived a little he said, “It has come too late.” But 
when Chasuble was backed to win thousands at ten to 
one, and Journeyman and Stack assured him that the 
stable was quite confident of being able to pull it off, 
his spirits revived. He spoke of hedging. “If,” he 
said to Esther, “I was to get out at eight or nine 
to one I should be able to leave you something, you 
know, in case of accidents. ’ ’ But he would not entrust 
laying off his bet to either Stacker Journeyman; he 
spoke of a cab and seeing to it himself. If he did this 
the doctor assured him that it would not much matter 
whether Chasuble won or lost. “The best thing he 
could do,” the doctor said, “would be to become an 
in-door patient at once. In the hospital he would be 
in an equable temperature, and he would receive an 
attention which he could not get at home.” 

William did not like going into the hospital; it 
would be a bad omen. If he did, he felt sure that 
Chasuble would not win. 

“What has going or not going to the hospital to do 
with Chasuble’s chance of winning the Cambridge- 
shire?” said the doctor. “This window is loose in its 
462 


ESTHER WATERS 


463 


sash, a draught comes under the door, and if you close 
out the draughts the atmosphere of the room becomes 
stufEy. You’re thinking of going abroad; a fortnight’s 
nice rest is just what you want to set you up for your 
journey.” 

So he allowed himself to be persuaded ; he was taken 
to the hospital, and Esther remained at home waiting 
for the fateful afternoon. Now that the dying man 
was taken from her she had no work to distract her 
thought. The unanswerable question — would Chas- 
uble win? — was always before her. She saw the 
slender greyhound creatures as she had seen them at 
Epsom, through a sea of heads and hats, and she asked 
herself if Chasuble was the brown horse that had gal- 
loped in first, or the chestnut that had trotted in last. 
She often thought she was going mad — her head 
seemed like it — a sensation of splitting like a piece of 
calico. . . . She went to see her boy. Jack was a 
great tall fellow of fifteen, and had happily lost none 
of his affection for his mother, and great sweetness 
rose up within her. She looked at his long, straight, 
yellow-stockinged legs; she settled the collar of his 
cloak, and slipped her fingers into his leathern belt as 
they walked side by side. He was bare-headed, 
according to the fashion of his school, and she kissed 
the wild, dark curls with which his head was run over ; 
they were much brighter in colour when he was a little 
boy — those days when she slaved seventeen hours a 
day for his dear life ! But he paid her back tenfold for 
the hardship she had undergone. 

She listened to the excellent report his masters gave 
of his progress, and walked through the quadrangles 
and the corridors with him, thinking of the sound of his 


464 


ESTHER WATERS 


voice as he told her the story of his classes and his 
studies. She must live for him; though for herself 
she had had enough of life. But, thank God, she had 
her darling boy, and whatever unhappiness there 
might be in store for her she would bear it for his 
sake. He knew that his father was ill, but she 
refrained and told him no word of the tragedy that 
was hanging over them. The noble instincts which 
were so intrinsically Esther Waters’ told her that it 
were a pity to soil at the outset a young life with a 
sordid story, and though it would have been an inex- 
pressible relief to her to have shared her trouble with 
her boy, she forced back her tears and courageously 
bore her cross alone, without once allowing its edge to 
touch him. 

And every day that visitors were allowed she went 
to the hospital with the newspaper containing the last 
betting. “Chasuble, ten to one taken,’’ William read 
out. The mare had advanced three points, and Wil- 
liam looked at Esther inquiringly, and with hope in 
his eyes. 

“I think she’ll win,’’ he said, raising himself in his 
cane chair. 

“I hope so, dear,’’ she murmured, and she settled 
his cushions. 

Two days after the mare was back again at thirteen 
to one taken and offered; she went back even as 
far as eighteen to one, and then returned for a while 
to twelve to one. This fluctuation meant that some- 
thing was wrong, and William began to lose hope. 
But on the following day the mare was backed to win 
a good deal of money at Tattersall’s, and once more 
she stood at ten to one. Seeing her back at the old 


ESTHER WATERS 


465 


price made William look so hopeful that a patient 
stopped as he passed down the corridor, and catching 
sight of the Sportsman on William’s lap, he asked him 
if he was interested in racing. William told him that 
he was, and that if Chasuble won he would be able to 
go to Egypt. 

“Them that has money can buy health as well as 
everything else. We’d all get well if we could get out 
there.*’ 

William told him how much he stood to win. 

“That’ll keep you going long enough to set you 
straight. You say the mare’s backed at ten to one — 
two hundred to twenty. I wonder if I could get the 
money. I might sell up the ’ouse. * ’ 

But before he had time to realise the necessary 
money the mare was driven back to eighteen to one, 
and he said — 

“She won’t win. I might as well leave the wife in 
the ’ouse. There’s no luck for them that comes ’ere.” 

On the day of the race Esther walked through the 
streets like one daft, stupidly interested in the passers- 
by and the disputes that arose between the drivers of 
cabs and omnibuses. Now and then her thoughts 
collected, and it seemed to her impossible that the 
mare should win. If she did they would have ;£2,5oo, 
and would go to Egypt. But she could not imagine 
such a thing ; it seemed so much more natural that the 
horse should lose, and that her husband should die, 
and that she should have to face the world once more. 
She offered up prayers that Chasuble might win, 
although it did not seem right to address God on the 
subject, but her heart often felt like breaking, and 
she had to do something. And she had no doubt that 


466 


ESTHER WATERS 


God would forgive her. But now that the day had 
come she did not feel as if he had granted her request. 
At the same time it did not seem possible that her 
husband was going to die. It was all so hard to 
understand. 

She stopped at the “Bell and Horns’* to see what 
the time was, and was surprised to find it was half- 
an-hour later than she had expected. The race was 
being run, Chasuble’s hoofs were deciding whether 
her husband was to live or die. It was on the wire by 
this time. The wires were distinct upon a blue and 
dove-coloured sky. Did that one go to Newmarket, 
or the other? Which? 

The red building came in sight, and a patient walked 
slowly up the walk, his back turned to her; another 
had sat down to rest. Sixteen years ago patients 
were walking there then, and the leaves were scatter- 
ing then just as now. . . . Without transition of 
thought she wondered when the first boy would appear 
with the news. William was not in the grounds; he 
was upstairs behind those windows. Poor fellow, she 
could fancy him sitting there. Perhaps he was watch- 
ing for her out of one of those windows. But there 
was no use her going up until she had the news ; she 
must wait for the paper. She walked up and down 
listening for the cry. Every now and then expectation 
led her to mistake some ordinary cry for the terrible 
“Win-ner, all the win-ner,” with which the whole town 
would echo in a few minutes. She hastened forward. 
No, it was not it. At last she heard the word shrieked 
behind her. She hastened after the boy, but failed to 
overtake him. Returning, she met another, gave him 
a half-penny and took a paper. Then she remembered 


ESTHER WATERS 


467 


she must ask the boy to tell her who won. But heed- 
less of her question he had run across the road to sell 
papers to some men who had come out of a public- 
house. She must not give William the paper and wait 
for him to read the news to her. If the news were bad 
the shock might kill him. She must learn first what 
the news was, so that her face and manner might pre- 
pare him for the worst if need be. So she offered the 
paper to the porter and asked him to tell her. 
“Bramble, King of Trumps, Young Hopeful,” he 
read out. 

“Are you sure that Chasuble hasn’t won?” 

“Of course I’m sure, there it is.” 

“I can’t read,” she said as she turned away. 

The news had stunned her; the world seemed to 
lose reality ; she was uncertain what to do, and several 
times repeated to herself, “There’s nothing for it but 
to go up and tell him. I don’t see what else I can 
do.” The staircase was very steep; she climbed it 
slowly, and stopped at the first landing and looked out 
of the window. A poor hollow-chested creature, the 
wreck of a human being, struggled up behind her. He 
had to rest several times, and in the hollow building 
his cough sounded loud and hollow. “It isn’t gener- 
ally so loud as that, ’ ’ she thought, and wondered how 
she could tell William the news. “He wanted to see 
Jack grow up to be a man. He thought that we might 
all go to Egypt, and that he’d get quite well there, for 
there’s plenty of sunshine there, but now he’ll have to 
make up his mind to die in the November fogs.” Her 
thoughts came strangely clear, and she was astonished 
at her indifference, until a sudden revulsion of feeling 
took her as she was going up the last flight. She 


468 


ESTHER WATERS 


couldn’t tell him the news; it was too cruel. She let 
the patient pass her, and when alone on the landing 
she looked down into the depth. She thought she’d 
like to fall over ; anything rather than to do what she 
knew she must do. But her cowardice only endured 
for a moment, and with a firm step she walked into 
the corridor. It seemed to cross the entire building, 
and was floored and wainscotted with the same brown 
varnished wood as the staircase. There were benches 
along the walls ; and emaciated and worn-out men lay 
on the long cane chairs in the windowed recesses by 
which the passage was lighted. The wards, containing 
sometimes three, sometimes six or seven beds, opened 
on to this passage. The doors of the wards were all 
open, and as she passed along she started at the sight 
of a boy sitting up in bed. His head had been shaved, 
and only a slight bristle covered the crown. The 
head and face were a large white mass with two eyes. 

At the end of the passage there was a window ; and 
William sat there reading a book. He saw her before 
she saw him, and when she caught sight of him she 
stopped, holding the paper loose before her between 
finger and thumb, and as she approached she saw that 
her manner had already broken the news to him. 

“I see that she didn’t win,” he said. 

“No, dear, she didn’t win. We wasn’t lucky this 
time : next time ’ ’ 

“There is no next time, at least for me. I shall be 
far away from here when flat racing begins again. 
The November fogs will do for me, I feel that they 
will. I hope there’ll be no lingering, that’s all. 
Better to know the worst and make up your mind. 
So I have to go, have I? So there’s no hope, and I 


ESTHER WATERS 


469 


shall be under ground before the next meeting. I 
shall never lay or take the odds again. It do seem 
strange. If only that mare had won. I knew damned 
well she wouldn’t if I came here.” 

Then, catching sight of the pained look on his wife’s 
face, he said, ‘T don’t suppose it made no difference; 
it was to be, and what has to be has to be. I’ve got to 
go under ground. I felt it was to be all along. 
Egypt would have done me no good; I never believed 
in it — only a lot of false hope. You don’t think what I 
say is true. Look ’ere, do you know what book this is? 
This is the Bible ; that’ll prove to you that I knew the 
game was up. I knew, I can’t tell you how, but I 
knew the mare wouldn’t win. One always seems to 
know. Even when I backed her I didn’t feel about her 
like I did about the other one, and ever since I’ve been 
feeling more and more sure that it wasn’t to be. 
Somehow it didn’t seem likely, and to-day something 
told me that the game was up, so I asked for this 
book. . . . There’s wonderful beautiful things in it.” 

“There is, indeed. Bill; and I hope you won’t get 
tired of it, but will go on reading it. ” 

“It’s extraordinary how consoling it is. Listen to 
this. Isn’t it beautiful; ain’t them words heavenly?” 
‘ * They is, indeed. I knew you’d come to God at last. ’ ’ 
“I’m afraid I’ve not led a good life. I wouldn’t 
listen to you when you used to tell me of the lot of 
harm the betting used to bring on the poor people 
what used to come to our place. There’s Sarah, I sup- 
pose she’s out of prison by this. You’ve seen nothing 
of her, I suppose?” 

“No, nothing.” 

“There was Ketley. ” 


470 


ESTHER WATERS 


“No, Bill, don’t let’s think about it. If you’re truly 
sorry, God will forgive. * ’ 

“Do you think He will — and the others that we 
know nothing about? I wouldn’t listen to you; I was 
headstrong, but I understand it all now. My eyes ’ave 
been opened. Them pious folk that got up the prose- 
cution knew what they was about. I forgive them one 
and all.” 

William coughed a little. The conversation paused, 
and the cough was repeated down the corridor. Now 
it came from the men lying on the long cane chairs ; 
now from the poor emaciated creature, hollow cheeks, 
brown eyes and beard, who had just come out of his 
ward and had sat down on a bench by the wall. Now 
it came from an old man six feet high, with snow- 
white hair. He sat near them, and worked assiduously 
at a piece of tapestry. “It’ll be better when it’s cut,’’ 
he said to one of the nurses, who had stopped to com- 
pliment him on his work; “it’ll be better when it’s 
cut. ’ ’ Then the cough came from one of the wards, 
and Esther thought of the fearsome boy sitting bolt 
up, his huge tallow-like face staring through the silence 
of the room. A moment after the cough came from 
her husband’s lips, and they looked at each other. 
Both wanted to speak, and neither knew what to say. 
At last William spoke. 

“I was saying that I never had that feeling about 
Chasuble as one ’as about a winner. Did she run 
second? Just like my luck if she did. Let me see 
the paper. ’ ’ 

Esther handed it to him. 

“Bramble, a fifty to one chance, not one man in a 
hundred backed her; King of Trumps, there was 


ESTHER WATERS 


471 


some place money lost on him; Young Hopeful, a rank 
outsider. What a day for the bookies ! ’ ’ 

“You mustn’t think of them things no more,’’ said 
Esther. “You’ve got the Book; it’ll do you more 
good. ’ ’ 

“If I’d only have thought of Bramble ... I 
could have had a hundred to one against Matchbox 
and Bramble coupled.’’ 

“What’s the use of thinking of things that’s over? 
We should think of the future.” 

“If I’d only been able to hedge that bet I should 
have been able to leave you something to go on with, 
but now, when everything is paid for, you’ll have 
hardly a five-pound note. You’ve been a good wife to 
me, and I’ve been a bad husband to you.” 

“Bill, you mustn’t speak like that. You must try to 
make your peace with God. Think of Him. He’ll 
think of us that you leave behind. I’ve always had 
faith in Him. He’ll not desert me.” 

Her eyes were quite dry; the instinct of life seemed 
to have left her. They spoke some little while longer, 
until it was time for visitors to leave the hospital. It 
was not until she got into the Fulham Road that tears 
began to run down her cheeks ; they poured faster and 
faster, like rain after long dry weather. The whole 
world disappeared in a mist of tears. And so over- 
come was she by her grief that she had to lean against 
the railings, and then the passers-by turned and looked 
at her curiously. 


XLIV. 


With fair weather he might hold on till Christmas, 
but if much fog was about he would go off with the last 
leaves. One day Esther received a letter asking her 
to defer her visit from Friday to Sunday. He hoped 
to be better on Sunday, and then they would arrange 
when she should come to take him away. He begged 
of her to have Jack home to meet him. He wanted to 
see his boy before he died. 

Mrs. Collins, a woman who lived in the next room, 
.read the letter to Esther. 

“If you can, do as he wishes. Once they gets them 
fancies into their heads there’s no getting them out.’’ 

“If he leaves the hospital on a day like this it’ll be 
the death of him. ’’ 

Both women went to the window. The fog was so 
thick that onl)'” an outline here and there was visible of 
the houses opposite. The lamps burnt low, mournful, 
as in a city of the dead, and the sounds that rose out of 
the street added to the terror of the strange darkness. 

“What do you say about Jack? That I’m to send for 
him. It’s natural he should like to see the boy 
before he goes, but it would be cheerfuller to take him 
to the hospital. ’ ’ 

“You see, he wants to die at home; he wants you to 
be with him at the last. ’ ’ 

“Yes, I want to see the last of him. But the boy, 
where’s he to sleep?” 


472 


ESTHER WATERS 


473 


“We can lay a mattress down in my room — an old 
woman like me, it don’t matter.” 

Sunday morning was harsh and cold, and when she 
came out of South Kensington Station a fog was ris- 
ing in the squares, and a great whiff of yellow cloud 
drifted down upon the house-tops. In the Fulham 
road the tops of the houses disappeared, and the light 
of the third gas-lamp was not visible. 

“This is the sort of weather that takes them off. I 
can hardly breathe it myself.” 

Everything was shadow-like ; those walking in front 
of her passed out of sight like shades, and once she 
thought she must have missed her way, though that was 
impossible, for her way was quite straight. . . . Sud- 
denly the silhouette of the winged building rose up 
enormous on the sulphur sky. The low-lying gardens 
were full of poisonous vapour, and the thin trees 
seemed like the ghosts of consumptive men. The 
porter coughed like a dead man as she passed, and he 
said, “Bad weather for the poor sick ones upstairs.” 

She was prepared for a change for the worse, but 
she did not expect to see a living man looking so 
like a dead one. 

He could no longer lie back in bed and breathe, so 
he was propped up with pillows, and he looked even 
as shadow-like as those she had half seen in the fog- 
cloud. There was fog even in the ward, and the 
lights burned red in the silence. There were five beds 
— low iron bedsteads — and each was covered with a 
dark red rug. In the furthest comer lay the wreck of 
a great working man. He wore his hob-nails and his 
corduroys, and his once brawny arm lay along his 
thigh, shrivelled and powerless as a child’s. In the 


474 


ESTHER WATERS 


middle of the room a little clerk, wasted and weary, 
without any strength at all, lay striving for breath. 
The navvy was alone ; the little clerk had his family 
round him, his wife and his two children, a baby in 
arms and a little boy three years old. The doctor had 
just come in, and the woman was prattling gaily about 
her confinement. She said — 

“I was up the following week. Wonderful what we 
women can go through. No one would think it. . . . 
brought the childer to see their father ; they is a little 
idol to him, poor fellow. ’ ’ 

“How are you to-day, dearie?” Esther said, as she 
took a seat by her husband’s bed. 

“Better than I was on Friday, but this weather ’ll 
do for me if it continues much longer. ... You see 
them two beds? They died yesterday, and I’ve ’eard 
that three or four that left the hospital are gone, too. ’ ’ 

The doctor came to William’s bed. “Well, are you 
still determined to go home?” he said. 

“Yes; I’d like to die at home. You can’t do noth- 
ing for me. . . . I’d like to die at home; I want to see 
my boy. ’ ’ 

“You can see Jack here,” said Esther. 

“I’d sooner see him at ’ome. ... I suppose you 
don’t want the trouble of a death in the ’ouse.” 

“Oh, William, how can you speak so!” The patient 
coughed painfully, and leaned against the pillows, 
unable to speak. 

Esther remained with William till the time per- 
mitted to visitors had expired. He could not speak to 
her, but she knew he liked her to be with him. 

When she came on Thursday to take him away, he 
was a little better. The clerk’s wife was chattering; 


ESTHER WATERS 


475 


the great navvy lay in the corner, still as a block of 
stone. Esther often looked at him and wondered if he 
had no friend who could spare an hour to come and see 
him. 

“I was beginning to think that you wasn’t coming,” 
said William. 

“He’s that restless,” said the clerk’s wife; “asking 
the time every three or four minutes. ’ ’ 

“How could you think that?” said Esther. 

“I dun know . . . you’re a bit late, aren’t you?” 

“It often do make them that restless, ’ ’ said the clerk’s 
wife. “But my poor old man is quiet enough — aren’t 
you, dear?” The dying clerk could not answer, and 
the woman turned again to Esther. 

“And how do you find him to-day?” 

“Much the same. ... I think he’s a bit better; 
stronger, don’t yer know. But this weather is that 
trying. I don’t know how it was up your way, but 
down my way I never seed such a fog. I thought I’d 
have to turn back. ’ ’ At that moment the baby began 
to cry, and the woman walked up and down the ward, 
rocking it violently, talking loud, and making a great 
deal of noise. But she could not quiet him. . . . 
“Hungry again,” she said. “I never seed such a child 
for the breast, ’ ’ and she sat down and unbuttoned her 
dress. When the young doctor entered she hurriedly 
covered herself ; he begged her to continue, and spoke 
about her little boy. She showed him a scar on his 
throat. He had been suffering, but it was all right 
now. The doctor glanced at the breathless father. 

“A little better to-day, thank you, doctor.” 

“That’s all right;” and the doctor went over to 
William. 


476 


ESTHER WATERS 


“Are you still determined to leave the hospital?” he 
said. 

“Yes, I want to go home. I want to ” 

“You’ll find this weather very trying; you’d 
better ” 

“No, thank you, sir. I should like to go home. 
You’ve been very kind; you’ve done everything that 
could be done for me. But it’s God’s will. . . . My 
wife is very grateful to you, too.” 

“Yes, indeed, I am, sir. However am I to thank 
you for your kindness to my husband?” 

“I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. But you’ll want 
the sister to help you to dress him. I’ll send her to 
you. ’ ’ 

When they got him out of bed, Esther was shocked 
at the spectacle of his poor body. There was nothing 
left of him. His poor chest, his wasted ribs, his legs 
gone to nothing, and the strange weakness, worst of 
all, which made it so hard for them to dress him. At 
last it was nearly done: Esther laced one boot, the 
nurse the other, and, leaning on Esther’s arm, he 
looked round the room for the last time. The navvy 
turned round on his bed and said — 

“Good-bye, mate.” 

“Good-bye. . . . Good-bye, all.” 

The clerk’s little son clung to his mother’s skirt, 
frightened at the weakness of so big a man. 

“Go and say good-bye to the gentleman.” 

The little boy came forward timidly, offering his 
hand. William looked at the poor little white face; he 
nodded to the father and went out. 

As he went downstairs he said he would like to go 
home in a hansom. The doctor and nurse expostu- 


ESTHER WATERS 


477 


lated, but he persisted until Esther begged of him to 
forego the wish for her sake. 

“They do rattle so, these four-wheelers, especially 
when the windows are up. One can’t speak.” 

The cab jogged up Piccadilly, and as it climbed out 
of the hollow the dying man’s eyes were fixed on the 
circle of lights that shone across the Green Park. 
They looked like a distant village, and Esther won- 
dered if William was thinking of Shoreham — she had 
seen Shoreham look like that sometimes — or if he was 
thinking that he was looking on London for the last 
time. Was he saying to himself, “I shall never, 
never see Piccadilly again”? They passed St. James’s 
Street. The Circus, with its mob of prostitutes, came 
into view; the “Criterion” bar, with its loafers stand- 
ing outside. William leaned a little forward, and 
Esther was sure he was thinking that he would never 
go into that bar again. The cab turned to the left, 
and Esther said that it would cross Soho, perhaps pass 
down Old Compton Street, opposite their old house. 
It happened that it did, and Esther and William 
wondered who were the new people who were selling 
beer and whisky in the bar? All the while boys were 
crying, “Win-ner, all the win-ner!” 

“The was run to-day. Flat racing all over, all 

over for this year. ’ ’ 

Esther did not answer. The cab passed over a piece 
of asphalte, and he said — 

“Is Jack waiting for us?” 

“Yes, he came home yesterday.” 

The fog was thick in Bloomsbury, and when he got 
out of the cab he was taken with a fit of coughing, and 
had to cling to the railings. She had to pay the cab. 


478 


ESTHER WATERS 


and it took some time to find the money. Would no 
one open the door? She was surprised to see him 
make his way up the steps to the bell, and having got 
her change, she followed him into the house. 

“I can manage. Go on first; I’ll follow.” 

And stopping every three or four steps for rest, he 
slowly dragged himself up to the first landing. A 
door opened and Jack stood on the threshold of the 
lighted room. 

“Is that you, mother?” 

“Yes, dear; your father is coming up.” 

The boy came forward to help, but his mother 
whispered, “He’d rather come up by himself.” 

William had just strength to walk into the room; 
they gave him a chair, and he fell back exhausted. 
He looked round, and seemed pleased to see his home 
again. Esther gave him some milk, into which she 
had put a little brandy, and he gradually revived. 

“Come this way. Jack; I want to look at you; come 
into the light where I can see you. ’ ’ 

“Yes, father.” 

“I haven’t long to see you. Jack. I wanted to be 
with you and your mother in our own home. I can 
talk a little now : I may not be able to to-morrow. ’ ’ 

“Yes, father.” 

“I want you to promise me. Jack, that you’ll never 
have nothing to do with racing and betting. It hasn’t 
brought me or your mother any luck. ” 

“Very well, father.” 

“You promise me. Jack. Give me your hand. You 
promise me that. Jack?” 

“Yes, father, I promise.” 

“I see it all clearlv enough now. Your mother. 


ESTHER WATERS 


479 


Jack, is the best woman in the world. She loved you 
better than I did. She worked for you — that is a sad 
story. I hope you’ll never hear it.” 

Husband and wife looked at each other, and in that 
° look the wife promised the husband that the son 
should never know the story of her desertion. 

“She was always against the betting. Jack; she 
always knew it would bring us ill-luck. I was once 
well off, but I lost everything. No good comes of 
money that one doesn’t work for. ’ ’ 

“I’m sure you worked enough for what you 
won,” said Esther; “travelling day and night from 
race-course to race-course. Standing on them race- 
courses in all weathers ; it was the colds you caught 
standing on them race-courses that began the mis- 
chief. ’ ’ 

“I worked hard enough, that’s true; but it was not 
the right kind of work. . . . I can’t argue, Esther. . . . 
But I know the truth now, what you always said was 
the truth. No good comes of money that hasn’t been 
properly earned. ’ ’ 

He sipped the brandy-and-milk and looked at Jack, 
who was crying bitterly. 

“You mustn’t cry like that. Jack; I want you to 
listen to me. I’ve still something on my mind. Your 
mother. Jack, is the best woman that ever lived. 
You’re too young to understand how good. I didn’t 
know how good for a long time, but I found it all out 
in time, as you will later. Jack, when you are a man. 
I’d hoped to see you grow up to be a man. Jack, and 
your mother and I thought that you’d have a nice bit 
of money. But the money I hoped to leave you is all 
gone. What I feel most is that I’m leaving you and 


480 


ESTHER WATERS 


your mother as badly off as she was when I married 
her.” He heaved a deep sigh, and Esther said — 
“What is the good of talking of these things, weak- 
ening yourself for nothing?” 

“I must speak, Esther. I should die happy if I knew* 
how you and the boy was going to live. You’ll have 
to go out and work for him as you did before. It will 
be like beginning it all again. ’ ’ 

The tears rolled down his cheeks ; he buried his face 
in his hands and sobbed, until the sobbing brought on 
a fit of coughing. Suddenly his mouth filled with 
blood. Jack went for the doctor, and all remedies 
were tried without avail. “There is one more 
remedy,” the doctor said, “and if that fails you must 
prepare for the worst. ’ ’ But this last remedy proved 
successful, and the haemorrhage was stopped, and Wil- 
liam was undressed and put to bed. The doctor said, 
“He mustn’t get up to-morrow.” 

“You lie in bed to-morrow, and try to get up your 
strength. You’ve overdone yourself tb-day.” 

She had drawn his bed into the warmest corner, 
close by the fire, and had made up for herself a sort of 
bed by the window, where she might doze a bit, for she 
did not expect to get much sleep. She would have to 
be up and down many times to settle his pillows and 
give him milk or a little weak brandy-and-water. 

Night wore away, the morning grew into day, and 
about twelve o’clock he insisted on getting up. She 
tried to persuade him, but he said he could not stop in 
bed; and there was nothing for it but to ask Mrs. 
Collins to help her dress him. They placed him com- 
fortably in a chair. The cough had entirely ceased 
and he seemed better. And on Saturday night he 


ESTHER WATERS 


481 


slept better than he had done for a long while and 
woke up on Sunday morning refreshed and apparently 
much stronger. He had a nice bit of boiled rabbit for 
his dinner. He didn’t speak much; Esther fancied 
that he was still thinking of them. When the after- 
noon waned, about four o’clock, he called Jack; he 
told him to sit in the light where he could see him, 
and he looked at his son with such wistful eyes. These 
farewells were very sad, and Esther had to turn aside 
to hide her tears. 

“I should have liked to have seen you a man. Jack.” 

“Don’t speak like that — I can’t bear it,” said the 
poor boy, bursting into tears. “Perhaps you won’t 
die yet.” 

“Yes, Jack; I'm wore out. I can feel,” he said, 
pointing to his chest, “that there is nothing here to 
live upon. ... It is the punishment come upon me.” 

“Punishment for what, father?” 

“I wasn’t always good to your mother. Jack.” 

“If to please me, William, you’ll say no more.” 

“The boy ought to know; it will be a lesson for him, 
and it weighs upon my heart.” 

“I don’t want my boy to hear anything bad about 
his father, and I forbid him to listen.” 

The conversation paused, and soon after William 
said that his strength was going from him, and that he 
would like to go back to bed. Esther helped him off 
with his clothes, and together she and Jack lifted him 
into bed. He sat up looking at them with wistful, 
dying eyes. 

“It is hard to part from you,” he said. “If Chas- 
uble had won we would have all gone to Egypt. I 
could have lived out there. ’ ’ 


482 


ESTHER WATERS 


“You must speak of them things no more. We all 
must obey God’s will.” Esther dropped on her 
knees; she drew Jack down beside her, and William 
asked Jack to read something from the Bible. Jack 
read where he first opened the book, and when he had 
finished William said that he liked to listen. Jack’s 
voice sounded to him like heaven. 

About eight o’clock William bade his son good- 
night. 

“Good-night, my boy; perhaps we shan’t see each 
other again. This may be my last night. ” 

“I won’t leave you, father.’’ 

“No, my boy, go to your bed. I feel I’d like to be 
alone with mother.’’ The voice sank almost to a 
whisper. 

“You’ll remember what you promised me about 
racing. ... Be good to your mother — she’s the best 
mother a son ever had. ’ ’ 

“I’ll work for mother, father. I’ll work for her.” 

“You’re too young, my son, but when you’re older 
I hope you’ll work for her. She worked for you. . . . 
Good-bye, my boy. ’ ’ 

The dying man sweated profusely, and Esther wiped 
his face from time to time. Mrs. Collins came in. 
She had a large tin candlestick in her hand in which 
there was a fragment of candle end. He motioned to 
her to put it aside. She put it on the table out of the 
way of his eyes. 

“You’ll help Esther to lay me out. ... I don’t want 
any one else. I don’t like the other woman. ’’ 

“Esther and me will lay you out, make your mind 
easy; none but we two shall touch you.” 

Once more Esther wiped his forehead, and he signed 


ESTHER WATERS 


4S3 


to her how he wished the bed-clothes to be arranged, 
for he could no longer speak. Mrs. Collins whispered 
to Esther that she did not think that the end could be 
far off, and compelled by a morbid sort of curiosity she 
took a chair and sat down. Esther wiped away the 
little drops of sweat as they came upon his forehead ; 
his chest and throat had to be wiped also, for they too 
were full of sweat. His eyes were fixed on the dark- 
ness and he moved his hand restlessly, and Esther 
always understood what he wanted. She gave him a 
little brandy-and-water, and when he could not take it 
from the glass she gave it to him with a spoon. 

The silence grew more solemn, and the clock on the 
mantelpiece striking ten sharp strokes did not inter- 
rupt it ; and then, as Esther turned from the bedside 
for the brandy, Mrs. Collins’s candle spluttered and 
went out ; a little thread of smoke evaporated, leaving 
only a morsel of blackened wick ; the flame had disap- 
peared for ever, gone as if it had never been, and 
Esther saw darkness where there had been a light. 
Then she heard Mrs. Collins say — 

“I think it is all over, dear.” 

The profile on the pillow seemed very little. 

“Hold up his head, so that if there is any breath it 
may come on the glass. 

“He’s dead, right enough. You see, dear, there’s 
not a trace of breath on the glass.” 

“I’d like to say a prayer. Will you say a prayer 
with me?” 

“Yes, I feel as if I should like to myself; it eases 
the heart wonderful.” 


XLV. 


She stood on the platform watching the receding 
train. A few bushes hid the curve of the line ; the 
white vapour rose above them, evaporating in the 
grey evening. A moment more and the last carriage 
would pass out of sight. The white gates swung 
slowly forward and closed over the line. 

An oblong box painted reddish brown lay on the 
seat beside her. A woman of seven or eight and 
thirty, stout and strongly built, short arms and hard- 
worked hands, dressed in dingy black skirt and a 
threadbare jacket too thin for the dampness of a 
November day. Her face was a blunt outline, and 
the grey eyes reflected all the natural prose of the 
Saxon. 

The porter told her that he would try to send her 
box up to Woodview to-morrow. . . . That was the 
way to Woodview, right up the lane. She could not 
miss it. She would And the lodge gate behind that 
clump of trees. And thinking how she could get her 
box to Woodview that evening, she looked at the 
barren strip of country lying between the downs and 
the shingle beach. The little town clamped about its 
deserted harbour seemed more than ever like falling 
to pieces like a derelict vessel, and when Esther 
passed over the level crossing she noticed that the line 
of little villas had not increased ; they were as she had 
left them eighteen years ago, laurels, iron railing, 
antimacassars. It was about eighteen years ago, on a 
484 


ESTHER WATERS 


485 


beautiful June day, that she had passed up this lane 
for the first time. At the very spot she was now pass- 
ing she had stopped to wonder if she would be able to 
keep the place of kitchen-maid. She remembered 
regretting that she had not a new dress ; she had hoped 
to be able to brighten up the best of her cotton prints 
with a bit of red ribbon. The sun was shining, and 
she had met William leaning over the paling in the 
avenue smoking his pipe. Eighteen years had gone 
by, eighteen years of labour, suffering, disappoint- 
ment. A great deal had happened, so much that she 
could not remember it all. The situations she had 
been in ; her life with that dear good soul. Miss Rice, 
then Fred Parsons, then William again; her marriage, 
the life in the public-house, money lost and money 
won, heart-breakings, death, everything that could 
happen had happened to her. Now it all seemed like 
a dream. But her boy remained to her. She had 
brought up her boy, thank God, she had been able to 
do that. But how had she done it? How often had 
she found herself within sight of the workhouse? The 
last time was no later than last week. Last week it 
had seemed to her that she would have to accept the 
workhouse. But she had escaped, and now here she 
was back at the very point from which she started, 
going back to Wood view, going back to Mrs. Barfield’s 
service. 

William’s illness and his funeral had taken Esther’s 
last few pounds away from her, and when she and 
Jack came back from the cemetery she found that she 
had broken into her last sovereign. She clasped him 
to her bosom — he was a tall boy of fifteen — and burst 
into tears. But she did not tell him what she was cry- 


486 


ESTHER WATERS 


ing for. She did not say, “God only knows how we 
shall find bread to eat next week;” she merely said, 
wiping away her tears, “We can’t afford to live here 
any longer. It’s too expensive for us now that 
father’s gone.” And they went to live in a slum for 
three-and-sixpence a week If she had been alone in 
the world she would have gone into a situation, but 
she could not leave the boy, and so she had to look 
out for charing. It was hard to have to come down to 
this, particularly when she remembered that she had 
had a house and a servant of her own ; but there was 
nothing for it but to look out for some charing, and 
get along as best she could until Jack was able to look 
after himself. But the various scrubbings and general 
cleaning that had come her way had been so badly 
paid that she soon found that she could not make both 
ends meet. She would have to leave her boy and go 
out as a general servant And as her necessities were 
pressing, she accepted a situation in a coffee-shop in 
the London Road. She would give all her wages to 
Jack, seven shillings a week, and he would have to 
live on that. So long as she had her health she did 
not mind. 

It was a squat brick building with four windows 
that looked down on the pavement with a short- 
sighted stare. On each window was written in letters 
of white enamel, “Well-aired beds.” A board nailed 
to a post by the side -door announced that tea and 
coffee were always ready. On the other side of the 
sign was an upholsterer’s, and the vulgar brightness of 
the Brussels carpets seemed in keeping with the slop- 
like appearance of the coffee-house. 

Sometimes a workman came in the morning; a 


ESTHER WATERS 


487 


couple more might come in about dinner-time. 
Sometimes they took rashers and bits of steak out of 
their pockets. 

“Won’t you cook this for me, missis?” 

But it was not until about nine in the evening that 
the real business of the house began, and it continued 
till one, when the last straggler knocked for admit- 
tance. The house lived on its beds. The best rooms 
were sometimes let for eight shillings a night, and 
there were four beds which were let at fourpence a 
night in the cellar under the area where Esther stood 
by the gpreat copper washing sheets, blankets, and 
counterpanes, when she was not cleaning the rooms 
upstairs. There was a double-bedded room under- 
neath the kitchen, and over the landings, wherever a 
space could be found, the landlord, who was clever at 
carpentering work, had fitted up some sort of closet 
place that could be let as a bedroom. The house was 
a honeycomb. The landlord slept under the roof, and 
a corner had been found for his housekeeper, a hand- 
some young woman, at the end of the passage. Esther 
and the children — the landlord was a widower — slept 
in the coffee-room upon planks laid across the tops of 
the high backs of the benches where the customers 
mealed. Mattresses and bedding were laid on these 
planks and the sleepers lay, their faces hardly two feet 
from the ceiling. Esther slept with the baby, a little 
boy of five ; the two big boys slept at the other end of 
the room by the front door. The eldest was about 
fifteen, but he was only half-witted ; and he helped in 
the housework, and could turn down the beds and see 
quicker than any one if the occupant had stolen sheet 
or blanket. Esther always remembered how he 


488 


ESTHER WATERS 


would raise himself up in bed in the early morning, 
rub the glass, and light a candle so that he could be 
seen from below. He shook his head if every bed was 
occupied, or signed with his fingers the prices of the 
beds if they had any to let. 

The laniord was a tall, thin man, with long features 
and hair turning grey. He was very quiet, and 
Esther was surprised one night at the abruptness with 
which he stopped a couple who were going upstairs. 

“Is that your wife?” he said. 

“Yes, she’s my wife all right.” 

“She don’t look very old.” 

“She’s older than she looks.” 

Then he said, half to Esther, half to his house- 
keeper, that it was hard to know what to do. If you 
asked them for their marriage certificates they’d be 
sure to show you something. The housekeeper 
answered that they paid well, and that was the prin- 
cipal thing. But when an attempt was made to steal 
the bed-clothes the landlord and his housekeeper were 
more severe. As Esther was about to let a most 
respectable woman out of the front door, the idiot boy 
called down the stairs, “Stop her! There’s a sheet 
missing. ’ ’ 

“Oh, what in the world is all this? I haven’t got 
your sheet. Pray let me pass; I’m in a hurry.” 

“I can’t let you pass until the sheet is found.” 

“You’ll find it upstairs under the bed. It’s got 
mislaid. I’m in a hurry.” 

, “Call in the police,” shouted the idiot boy. 

“You*d better come upstairs and help me to find the 
sheet,” said Esther. 

The woman hesitated a moment, and then walked 


ESTHER WATERS 


489 


Up in front of Esther. When they were in the bed- 
room she shook out her petticoats, and the sheet fell on 
the floor. 

“There, now,” said Esther, “a nice botheration 
you’d ’ve got me into. I should ’ve had to pay for it. ” 

“Oh, I could pay for it; it was only because I’m not 
very well off at present. ” 

“Yes, you will pay for it if you don’t take care,*’ 
said Esther. 

It was very soon after that Esther had her mother’s 
books stolen from her. They had not been doing 
much business, and she had been put to sleep in one of 
the bedrooms. The room was suddenly wanted, and 
she had no time to move all her things, and when she 
went to make up the room she found that her mother’s 
books and a pair of jet earrings that Fred had given 
her had been stolen. She could do nothing; the 
couple who had occupied the room were far away by 
this time. There was no hope of ever recovering her 
books and earrings, and the loss of these things caused 
her a great deal of unhappiness. The only little treasure 
she possessed vrere those earrings; now they were 
gone, she realised how utterly alone she was in the 
world. If her health were to break down to-morrow 
she would have to go to the workhouse. What would 
become of her boy? She was afraid to think; thinking 
did no good. She must not think, but must just work 
on, washing the bedclothes until she could wash no 
longer. Wash, wash, all the week long; and it was 
only by working on till one o’clock in the morning 
that she sometimes managed to get the Sabbath free 
from washing. Never, not even in the house in 
Chelsea, had she had such hard work, and she was not 


490 ESTHER WATERS 

as strong now as she was then. But her courage did 
not give way until one Sunday Jack came to tell her 
that the people who employed him had sold their 
business. 

Then a strange weakness came over her. She 
thought of the endless week of work that awaited her 
in the cellar, the great copper on the fire, the heaps of 
soiled linen in the corner, the steam rising from the 
wash-tub, and she felt she had not sufficient strength 
to get through another week of such work. She 
looked at her son with despair in her eyes. She had 
whispered to him as he lay asleep under her shawl, a 
tiny infant, ‘ ‘ There is nothing for us, my poor boy, but 
the workhouse,” and the same thought rose up in her 
mind as ’she looked at him, a tall lad with large grey 
eyes and dark curling hair. But she did not trouble 
him with her despair. She merely said — 

“I don’t know how we shall pull through. Jack. 
God will help us.” 

‘‘You’re washing too hard, mother. You’re wasting 
away. Do you know no one, mother, who could help us?” 

She looked at Jack fixedly, and she thought of Mrs. 
Barfield. Mrs. Barfield might be away in the South 
with her daughter. If she were at Woodview Esther 
felt sure that she would not refuse to help her. So 
Jack wrote at Esther’s dictation, and before they 
expected an answer, a letter came from Mrs. Barfield 
saying that she remembered Esther perfectly well. 
She had just returned from the South. She was all 
alone at Woodview, and wanted a servant. Esther 
could come and take the place if she liked. She 
enclosed five pounds, and hoped that the money would 
enable Esther to leave London at once. 


ESTHER WATERS 


491 


But this returning to former conditions filled Esther 
with strange trouble. Her heart beat as she recog- 
nised the spire of the church between the trees, and 
the undulating line of downs behind the trees awak- 
ened painful recollections. She knew the white gate 
was somewhere in this plantation, but could not 
remember its exact position ; and she took the road to 
the left instead of taking the road to the right, and 
had to retrace her steps. The gate had fallen from its 
hinge, and she had some difficulty in opening it. The 
lodge where the blind gatekeeper used to play the flute 
was closed; the park paling had not been kept in 
repair; wandering sheep and cattle had worn away the 
great holly hedge ; and Esther noticed that in falling 
an elm had broken through the garden wall. 

When she arrived at the iron gate under the bunched 
evergreens, her steps paused. For this was where she 
had met William for the first time. He had taken her 
through the stables and pointed out to her Silver 
Braid’s box. She remembered the horses going to the 
downs, horses coming from the downs — stabling and 
the sound of hoofs everywhere. But now silence. 
She could see that many a roof had fallen, and that 
ruins of outhouses filled the yard. She remembered 
the kitchen windows, bright in the setting sun, and the 
white-capped servants moving about the great white 
table. But now the shutters were up, nowhere a 
light ; the knocker had disappeared from the door, and 
she asked herself how she was to get in. She even 
felt afraid. . . . Supposing she should not find Mrs. 
Barfield. She made her way through the shrubbery, 
tripping over fallen branches and trunks of trees; 
rooks rose out of the evergreens with a great clatter, 


492 ESTHER WATERS 

her heart stood still, and she hardly dared to tear 
herself through the mass of underwood. At last she 
gained the lawn, and, still very frightened, sought for 
the bell. The socket plate hung loose on the wire, 
and only a faint tinkle came through the solitude of 
the empty house. 

At last footsteps and a light ; the chained door was 
opened a little, and a voice asked who it was. Esther 
explained ; the door was opened, and she stood face to 
face with her old mistress. Mrs. Barfield stood, hold- 
ing the candle high, so that she could see Esther. 
Esther knew her at once. She had not changed very 
much. She kept her beautiful white teeth and her 
girlish smile; the pointed, vixen-like face had not 
altered in outline, but the reddish hair was so thin 
that it had to be parted on the side and drawn over 
the skull; her figure was delicate and sprightly as 
ever. Esther noticed all this, and Mrs. Barfield 
noticed that Esther had grown stouter. Her face was 
still pleasant to see, for it kept that look of blunt, hon- 
est nature which had always been its charm. She was 
now the thick-set working woman of forty, and she 
stood holding the hem of her jacket in her rough 
hands. 

“We’d better put the chain up, for I’m alone in the 
house. ’ ’ 

“Aren’t you afraid, ma’am?’’ 

“A little, but there’s nothing to steal. I asked the 
policeman to. keep a look-out. Come into the library. ’’ 

There was the round table, the little green sofa, the 
piano, the parrot’s cage, and the yellow-painted 
presses; and it seemed only a little while since she had 
been summoned to this room, since she had stood fac- 


ESTHER WATERS 


493 


ing her mistress, her confession on her lips. It 
seemed like yesterday, and yet seventeen years and 
more had gone by. And all these years were now a 
sort of a blur in her mind — a dream, the connecting 
links of which were gone, and she stood face to face 
with her old mistress in the old room. 

“You’ve had a cold journey, Esther; you’d like 
some tea?’’ 

“Oh, don’t trouble, ma’am.’’ 

“It’s no trouble; I should like some myself. The 
fire’s out in the kitchen. We can boil the kettle here. ’ ’ 

They went through the baize door into the long 
passage. Mrs. Barfield told Esther where was the 
pantry, the kitchen, and the larder. Esther answered 
that she remembered quite well, and it seemed to her 
not a little strange that she should know these things. 
Mrs. Barfield said — 

“So you haven’t forgotten Woodview, Esther?’* 

“No, ma’am. It seems like yesterday. . . . But 
I’m afraid the damp has got into the kitchen, ma’am, 
the range is that neglected ’’ 

“Ah, Woodview isn’t what it was.’’ 

Mrs. Barfield told how she had buried her husband 
in the old village church. She had taken her daughter 
to Egypt ; she had dwindled there till there was little 
more than a skeleton to lay in the grave. 

“Yes, ma’am, I know how it takes them, inch by 
inch. My husband died of consumption.’’ 

They sat talking for hours. One thing led to 
another, and Esther gradually told Mrs. Barfield the 
story of her life from the day they bade each other 
gooibye in the room they were now sitting in. 

“It is quite a romance, Esther.’’ 


494 


ESTHER WATERS 


“It was a hard fight, and it isn’t over yet, ma’am. 
It won’t be over until I see him settled in some 
regular work. I hope I shall live to see him settled. ’ ’ 
They sat over the fire a long time without speaking. 
Mrs. Barfield said — 

“It must be getting on for bedtime.” 

“I suppose it must, ma’am.” 

She asked if she should sleep in the room she had 
once shared with Margaret Gale. Mrs. Barfield 
answered with a sigh that as all the bedrooms were 
empty Esther had better sleep in the room next to 
hers. 


XLVI. 


Esther seemed to have quite naturally accepted 
Woodview as a final stage. Any further change in her 
life she did not seem to regard as possible or desir- 
able. One of these days her boy would get settled ; 
he would come down now and again to see her. She 
did not want any more than that. No, she did not find 
the place lonely. A young girl might, but she was no 
longer a young girl; she had her work to do, and 
when it was done she was glad to sit down to rest. 

And, dressed in long cloaks, the women went for 
walks together; sometimes they went up the hill, 
sometimes into Southwick to make some little pur- 
chases. On Sundays they walked to Beeding to attend 
meeting. And they came home along the winter 
roads, the peace and happiness of prayer upon their 
faces, holding their skirts out of the mud, unashamed 
of their common boots. They made no acquaintances, 
seeming to find in each other all necessary companion- 
ship. Their heads bent a little forward, they trudged 
home, talking of what they were in the habit of talk- 
ing, that another tree had been blown down, that Jack 
was now earning good money — ten shillings a week. 
Esther hoped it would last. Or else Esther told her 
mistress that she had heard that one of Mr. Arthur’s 
horses had won a race. He lived in the North of Eng- 
land, where he had a small training stable, and his 
mother never heard of him except through the sporting 
papers. “He hasn’t been here for four years,’’ Mrs. 

495 


49^ ESTHER WATERS 

Barfield said; “he hates the place; he wouldn’t care 
if I were to burn it down to-morrow. . . . However, I 
do the best I can, hoping that one day he’ll marry and 
come and live here. ’ ’ 

Mr. Arthur — that was how Mrs. Barfield and Esther 
spoke of him — did not draw any income from the 
estate. The rents only sufficed to pay the charges and 
the widow’s jointure. All the land was let; the 
house he had tried to let, but it had been found impos- 
sible to find a tenant, unless Mr. Arthur would expend 
some considerable sum in putting the house and gounds 
into a state of proper repair. This he did not care to 
do ; he said that he found race-horses a more profitable 
speculation. Besides, even the park had been let on 
lease; nothing remained to him but the house and 
lawn and garden; he could no longer gallop a horse 
on the hill without somebody’s leave, so he didn’t care 
what became of the place. His mother might go on 
living there, keeping things together as she called it ; 
he did not mind what she did as long as she didn’t 
bother him. So did he express himself regarding 
Woodview on the rare occasion of his visits, and when 
he troubled to answer his mother’s letters. Mrs. Bar- 
field, whose thoughts were limited to the estate, was 
pained by his indifference; she gradually ceased to 
consult him, and when Beeding was too far for her to 
walk she had the furniture removed from the drawing- 
room and a long deal table placed there instead. She 
had not asked herself if Arthur would object to her 
inviting a few brethren of the neighbourhood to her 
house for meeting, or publishing the meetings by 
notices posted on the lodge gate. 

One day Mrs. Barfield and Esther were walking in 


ESTHER WATERS 


497 


the avenue, when, to their surprise, they saw Mr. 
Arthur open the white gate and come through. The 
mother hastened forward to meet her son, but paused, 
dismayed by the anger that looked out of his eyes. 
He did not like the notices, and she was sorry that he 
was annoyed. She didn’t think that he would mind 
them, and she hastened by his side, pleading her 
excuses. But to her great sorrow Arthur did not 
seem to be able to overcome his annoyance. He 
refused to listen, and continued his reproaches, saying 
the things that he knew would most pain her. 

He did not care whether the trees stood or fell, 
whether the cement remained upon the walls or 
dropped from them ; he didn’t draw a penny of income 
from the place, and did not care a damn what became 
of it. He allowed her to live there, she got her 
jointure out of the property, and he didn’t want to 
interfere with her, but what he could not stand was 
the snuffy little folk from the town coming round his 
house. The Barfields at least were county, and he 
wished Woodview to remain county as long as the 
walls held together. He wasn’t a bit ashamed of all 
this ruin. You could receive the Prince of Wales in a 
ruin, but he wouldn’t care to ask him into a dissenting 
chapel. Mrs. Barfield answered that she didn’t see 
how the mere assembling of a few friends in prayer 
could disgrace a house. She did not know that he 
objected to her asking them. She would not ask them 
any more. The only thing was that there was no 
place nearer than Beeding where they could meet, and 
she could no longer walk so far. She would have to 
give up meeting. 

“It seems to me a strange taste to want to kneel 


498 


ESTHER WATERS 


down with a lot of little shop-keepers. ... Is this 
where you kneel?” he said, pointing to the long deal 
table. “The place is a regular little Bethel. ” 

“Our Lord said that when a number should gather 
together for prayer that He would be among them. 
Those are true words, and as we get old we feel more 
and more the want of this communion of spirit. It is 
only then that we feel that we’re really with God. . . . 
The folk that you despise are equal in His sight. 
And living here alone, what should I be without 
prayer? and Esther, after her life of trouble and 
strife, what would she be without prayer? ... It is 
our consolation. ’ ’ 

“I think one should choose one’s company for 
prayer as for everything else. Besides, what do you 
get out of it? Miracles don’t happen nowadays. ” 
“You’re very young, Arthur, and you cannot feel 
the want of prayer as we do — two old women living in 
this lonely house. As age and solitude overtake us, 
the realities of life float away and we become more and 
more sensible to the mystery which surrounds us. 
And our Lord Jesus Christ gave us love and prayer so 
that we might see a little further. ’ ’ 

An expression of great beauty came upon her face, 
that unconscious resignation which, like the twilight, 
hallows and transforms. In such moments the 
humblest hearts are at one with nature, and speak out 
of the eternal wisdom of things. So even this com- 
mon racing man was touched, and he said — 

“I’m sorry if I said anything to hurt your religious 
feelings.” 

Mrs. Barfield did not answer. 

“Do you not accept my apologies, mother?” 


ESTHER WATERS 


499 


“My dear boy, what do I care for your apologies; 
what are they to me? All I think of now is your con- 
version to Christ. Nothing else matters. I shall 
always pray for that. “ 

“You may have whom you like up here; I don’t 
mind if it makes you happy. I’m ashamed of myself. 
Don’t let’s say any more about it. I’m only down for 
the day. I’m going home to-morrow. ” 

“Home, Arthur! this is your home. I can’t bear to 
hear you speak of any other place as your home.’’ 

“Well, mother, then I shall say that I’m going back 
to business to-morrow. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Barfield sighed. 


XLVIL 


Days, weeks, months passed away, and the two 
women came to live more and more like friends and 
less like mistress and maid. Not that Esther ever 
failed to use the respectful “ma’am” when she 
addressed her mistress, nor did they ever sit down to a 
meal at the same table. But these slight social dis- 
tinctions, which habit naturally preserved, and which 
it would have been disagreeable to both to forego, were 
no check "on the intimacy of their companionship. In 
the evening they sat in the library sewing, or Mrs. 
Barfield read aloud, or they talked of their sons. On 
Sundays they had their meetings. The folk came 
from quite a distance, and sometimes as many as five- 
and-twenty knelt round the deal table in the drawing- 
room, and Esther felt that these days were the 
happiest of her life. She was content in the peaceful 
present, and she knew that Mrs. Barfield would not 
leave her unprovided for. She was almost free from 
anxiety. But Jack did not seem to be able to obtain 
regular employment in London, and her wages were 
so small that she could not help him much. So the 
sight of his handwriting made her tremble, and she 
sometimes did not show the letter to Mrs. Barfield for 
some hours after. 

One Sunday morning, after meeting, as the two 
women were going for their walk up the hill, Esther 
said — 


500 


ESTHER WATERS 


501 

“I’ve a letter from my boy, ma’am. I hope it is to 
tell me that he’s got back to work. 

“I’m afraid I shan’t be able to read it, Esther. I 
haven’t my glasses with me.’’ 

“It don’t matter, ma’am — it’ll keep.’’ 

“Give it to me — his writing is large and legible. I 
think I can read it. ‘My dear mother, the place I told 
you of in my last letter was given away, so I must go 
on in the toy-shop till something better turns up. I 
only get six shillings a week and my tea, and can’t 
quite manage on that.’ Then something — something 
— ‘pay three and sixpence a week’ — something — ‘bed’ 
— something — something. ’ ’ 

“I know, ma’am; he shares abed with the eldest 
boy. ’ ’ 

“Yes, that’s it; and he wants to know if you can 
help him. ‘I don’t like to trouble you, mother; but it 
is hard for a boy to get his living in London. ’ ’ ’ 

“But I’ve sent him all my money. I shan’t have 
any till next quarter.’’ 

“I’ll lend you some, Esther. We can’t leave the 
boy to starve. He can’t live on two and sixpence a 
week. ’’ 

“You’re very good, ma’am; but I don’t like to 
take your money. We shan’t be able to get the 
garden cleared this winter.” 

“We shall manage somehow, Esther. The garden 
must wait. The first thing to do is to see that your 
boy doesn’t want for food.’’ 

The women resumed their walk up the hill. When 
they reached the top Mrs. Barfield said — 

“I haven’t heard from Mr. Arthur for months. I 
envy you, Esther, those letters asking for a little 


502 


ESTHER WATERS 


money. What’s the use of money to us except to give 
it to our children? Helping others, that is the only 
happiness. ’ ’ 

At the end of the coombe, under the shaws, stood 
the old red-tiled farmhouse in which Mrs. Barfield had 
been born. Beyond it, downlands rolled on and on, 
reaching half-way up the northern sky. Mrs. Barfield 
was thinking of the days when her husband used to 
jump off his cob and walk beside her through those 
gorse patches on his way to the farmhouse. She had 
come from the farmhouse beneath the shaws to go to 
live in an Italian house sheltered by a fringe of trees. 
That was her adventure. She knew it, and she turned 
from the view of the downs to the view of the sea. 
The plantations of Woodview touched the horizon, 
then the line dipped, and between the top branches of 
a row of elms appeared the roofs of the town. Over a 
long spider-legged bridge a train wriggled like a snake, 
the bleak river flowed into the harbour, and the 
shingle banks saved the low land from inundation. 
Then the train passed behind the square, dogmatic 
tower of the village church. Her husband lay beneath 
the chancel ; her father, mother, all her relations, lay 
in the churchyard. She would go there in a few 
years. . . . Her daughter lay far away, far away in 
Egypt. Upon this downland all her life had been 
passed, all her life except the few months she had 
spent by her daughter’s bedside in Egypt. She had 
come from that coombe, from that farmhouse beneath 
the shaws, and had only crossed the down. 

And this barren landscape meant as much to Esther 
as to her mistress. It was on these downs that she had 
walked with William. He had been born and bred on 


ESTHER WATERS 


503 


these downs ; but he lay far away in Brompton 
Cemetery ; it was she who had come back ! and in her 
simple way she too wondered at the mystery of 
destiny. 

As they descended the hill Mrs. Barfield asked 
Esther if she ever heard of Fred Parsons. 

“No, ma’am, I don’t know what’s become of him.’’ 

“And if you were to meet him again, would you 
care to marry him?” 

“Marry and begin life over again! All the worry 
and bother over again ! Why should I marry? — all I 
live for now is to see my boy settled in life. ’ ’ 

The women walked on in silence, passing by long 
ruins of stables, coach-houses, granaries, rick-yards, 
all in ruin and decay. The women paused and went 
towards the garden ; and removing some pieces of the 
broken gate they entered a miniature wilderness. The 
espalier apple-trees had disappeared beneath climb- 
ing weeds, and long briars had shot out from the 
bushes, leaving few traces of the former walks — a 
damp, dismal place that the birds seemed to have 
abandoned. Of the greenhouse only some broken glass 
and a black broken chimney remained. A great elm 
had carried away a large portion of the southern 
wall, and under the drippin|f trees an aged peacock 
screamed for his lost mate. 

“I don’t suppose that Jack will be able to find any 
more paying employment this winter. We must send 
him six shillings a week ; that, with what he is earning, 
will make twelve; he’ll be able to live nicely on that.” 

“I should think he would indeed. But, then, what 
about the wages of them who was to have cleared the 
gardens for us?” 


504 


ESTHER WATERS 


“We shan’t be able to get the whole garden cleared, 
but Jim will be able to get a piece ready for us to sow 
some spring vegetables, not a large piece, but enough 
for us. The first thing to do will be to cut down those 
apple-trees. I’m afraid we shall have to cut down 
that walnut ; nothing could grow beneath it. Did any 
one ever see such a mass of weed and briar? Yet it is 
only about ten years since we left Wood view, and the 
garden was let run to waste. Nature does not take 
long, a few years, a very few years.” 


XLVIII. 


All the winter the north wind roamed on the hills ; 
many trees fell in the park, and at the end of February 
Woodview seemed barer and more desolate than ever; 
broken branches littered the roadway, and the tall 
trunks showed their wounds. The women sat over 
their fire in the evening listening to the blast, cogi- 
tating the work that awaited them as soon as the 
weather showed signs of breaking. 

Mrs. Barfield had laid by a few pounds during the 
winter; and the day that Jim cleared out the first piece 
of espalier trees she spent entirely in the garden, 
hardly able to take her eyes off him. But the pleasure 
of the day was in a measure spoilt for her by the 
knowledge that on that day her son was riding in the 
great steeple-chase. She was full of fear for his 
safety ; she did not sleep that night, and hurried down 
at an early hour to the garden to ask Jim for the 
newspaper which she had told him to bring her. He 
took some time to extract the paper from his torn 
pocket. 

“He isn’t in the first three,” said Mrs. Barfield. “I 
always know that he’s safe if he’s in the first three. 
We must turn to the account of the race to see if there 
were any accidents. ’ ’ 

She turned over the paper. 

“Thank God, he’s safe,” she said; “his horse ran 
fourth.” 


505 


5o6 


ESTHER WATERS 


“You worry yourself without cause, ma’am. A good 
rider like him don’t meet with accidents. 

“The best riders are often killed, Esther. I never 
have an easy moment when I hear he’s going to ride in 
these races. Supposing one day I were to read that he 
was carried back on a shutter. ’ ’ 

“We mustn’t let our thoughts run on such things, 
ma’am. If a war was to break out to-morrow, what 
should I do? His regiment would be ordered out. It 
is sad to think that he had to enlist. But, as he said, 
he couldn’t go on living on me any longer. Poor 
boy! ... We must keep on working, doing the best 
we can for them. There are all sorts of chances, and 
we can only pray that God may spare them. ’ ’ 

“Yes, Esther, that’s all we can do. Work on, work 
on to the end. . . . But your boy is coming to see 
you to-day.’’ 

“Yes, ma’am, he’ll be here by twelve o’clock.’’ 
“You’re luckier than I am. I wonder if I shall ever 
see my boy again. ’ ’ 

“Yes, ma’am, of course you will. He’ll come back to 
you right enough one of these days. There’s a good 
time coming; that’s what I always says. . . . And 
now I’ve got work to do in the house. Are you going 
to stop here, or are you coming in with me? It’ll do 
you no good standing about in the wet clay. ’ ’ 

Mrs. Barfield smiled and nodded, and Esther paused 
at the broken gate to watch her mistress, who stood 
superintending the clearing away of ten years’ growth 
of weeds, as much interested in the prospect of a few 
peas and cabbages as in former days she had been in 
the culture of expensive flowers. She stood on what 
remained of a gravel walk, the heavy clay clinging to 


ESTHER WATERS 


507 


her boots, watching Jim piling weeds upon his barrow. 
Would he be able to finish the plot of ground by the 
end of the week? What should they do with that great 
walnut-tree? Nothing would grow underneath it. 
Jim was afraid that he would not be able to cut it 
down and remove it without help. Mrs. Barfield sug- 
gested sawing away some of the branches, but Jim was 
not sure that the expedient would prove of much avail. 
In his opinion the tree took all the goodness out of the 
soil, and that while it stood they could not expect a 
very great show of vegetables. Mrs. Barfield asked if 
the sale of the tree trunk would indemnify her for the 
cost of cutting it down. Jim paused in his work, and, 
leaning on his spade, considered if there was any one in 
the town, who, for the sake of the timber, would cut 
the tree down and take it away for nothing. There 
ought to be some such person in town; if it came to 
that, Mrs. Barfield ought to receive something for the 
tree. Walnut was a valuable wood, was extensively 
used by cabinetmakers, and so on, until Mrs. Barfield 
begged him to get on with his digging. 

At twelve o’clock Esther and Mrs. Barfield walked 
out on the lawn. A loud wind came up from the sea, 
and it shook the evergreens as if it were angry with 
them. A rook carried a stick to the tops of the tall 
trees, and the women drew their cloaks about them. 
The train passed across the vista, and the women 
wondered how long it would take Jack to walk 
from the station. Then another rook stooped to 
the edge of the plantation, gathered a twig, and 
carried it away. The wind was rough; it caught 
the evergreens underneath and blew them out like 
umbrellas ; the grass had not yet begun to grow, and 


5o8 


ESTHER WATERS 


the grey sea harmonised with the grey-green land. 
The women waited on the windy lawn, their skirts 
blown against their legs, keeping their hats on with 
difficulty. It was too cold for standing still. They 
turned and walked a few steps towards the house, and 
then looked round. 

A tall soldier came through the gate. He wore a 
long red cloak, and a small cap jauntily set on the side 
of his close-clipped head. Esther uttered a little 
exclamation, and ran to meet him. He took his 
mother in his arms, kissed her, and they walked 
towards Mrs. Barfield together. All was forgotten in 
the happiness of the moment — the long fight for his 
life, and the possibility that any moment might 
declare him to be mere food for powder and shot. She 
was only conscious that she had accomplished her 
woman’s work — she had brought him up to man’s 
estate; and that was her sufficient reward. What a 
fine fellow he was! She did not know he was so hand- 
some, and blushing with pleasure and pride she 
glanced shyly at him out of the corners of her eyes as 
she introduced him to her mistress. 

“This is my son, ma’am.’’ 

Mrs. Barfield held out her hand to the young soldier. 

“I have heard a great deal about you from your 
mother.” 

“And I of you, ma'am. You’ve been very kind to 
my mother. I don’t know how to thank you. ’’ 

And in silence they walked towards the house. 


THE END. 


PRINTED BY R. R. DONNELLEY 
AND SONS COMPANY AT THE 
LAKESIDE PRESS, CHICAGO, ILL. 


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